* 


PRISON  MEMOIRS 
OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


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» 


t 


PRISON  MEMOIRS 


OF  AN 

ANARCHIST 


BY 

ALEXANDER  BERKMAN 


NEW  YORK 

Mother  Earth  publishing  Association 

1912 


HX 

-  6  $ 


Publiebed  September*  1912 


320519 


ISAAC  00LPMANN  CO. 

20 

PRINTERS,  NEW  YORK 


BOSTON  COT.'  COE  LIBRARY. 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


S&5  so 


To  all  tkose  wlio  m  and  out  of 
f  lgkt  against  tkeir  bondage 


prison 


“But  tins  I  know,  tliat  every  Law 
That  men  have  made  for  Man, 

Since  first  Man  took  his  brother's  life. 
And  the  sad  world  began. 

But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  ehaff 
With  a  most  evil  fan.'' 


Oscar  Wilde 


AS  INTRODUCTORY 


I  wish  that  everybody  in  the  world  would  read  this 
book.  And  my  reasons  are  not  due  to  any  desire  on  my 
part  that  people  should  join  any  group  of  social  philos¬ 
ophers  or  revolutionists.  I  desire  that  the  book  be 
widely  read  because  the  general  and  careful  reading  of 
it  would  definitely  add  to  true  civilization. 

It  is  a  contribution  to  the  writings  which  promote 
civilization ;  for  the  following  reasons : 

It  is  a  human  document.  It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  be 
sincere.  More  than  that,  it  is  a  valuable  thing.  To  be 
so,  means  unusual  qualities  of  the  heart  and  of  the  head; 
unusual  qualities  of  character.  The  books  that  possess 
this  quality  are  unusual  books.  There  are  not  many 
deliberately  autobiographical  writings  that  are  markedly 
sincere;  there  are  not  many  direct  human  documents. 
This  is  one  of  these  few  books. 

Not  only  has  this  book  the  interest  of  the  human 
document,  but  it  is  also  a  striking  proof  of  the  power  of 
the  human  soul.  Alexander  Berkman  spent  fourteen 
years  in  prison ;  under  perhaps  more  than  commonly 
harsh  and  severe  conditions.  Prison  life  tends  to  destroy 
the  body,  weaken  the  mind  and  pervert  the  character. 
Berkman  consciously  struggled  with  these  adverse,  de¬ 
structive  conditions.  He  took  care  of  his  body.  He 
took  care  of  his  mind.  He  did  so  strenuously.  It  was 
a  moral  effort.  He  felt  insane  ideas  trying  to  take  pos¬ 
session  of  him.  Insanity  is  a  natural  result  of  prison 
life.  It  always  tends  to  come.  This  man  felt  it, 
consciously  struggled  against  it,  and  overcame  it.  That 


AS  INTRODUCTORY 


the  prison  affected  him  is  true.  It  always  does.  But  he 
saved  himself,  essentially.  Society  tried  to  destroy  him, 
but  failed. 

If  people  will  read  this  book  carefully  it  will  tend 
to  do  away  with  prisons.  The  public,  once  vividly 
conscious  of  what  prison  life  is  and  must  be,  would  not 
be  willing  to  maintain  prisons.  This  is  the  only  book 
that  I  know  which  goes  deeply  into  the  corrupting,  de¬ 
moralizing  psychology  of  prison  life.  It  shows,  in  pic¬ 
ture  after  picture,  sketch  after  sketch,  not  only  the  obvious 
brutality,  stupidity,  ugliness  permeating  the  institution, 
but,  very  touching,  it  shows  the  good  qualities  and  in¬ 
stincts  of  the  human  heart  perverted,  demoralized,  help¬ 
lessly  struggling  for  life ;  beautiful  tendencies  basely  ex¬ 
pressing  themselves.  And  the  personality  of  Berkman 
goes  through  it  all;  idealistic,  courageous,  uncompromis¬ 
ing,  sincere,  truthful;  not  untouched,  as  I  have  said,  by 
his  surroundings,  but  remaining  his  essential  self. 

What  lessons  there  are  in  this  book !  Like  all  truth¬ 
ful  documents  it  makes  us  love  and  hate  our  fellow 
men,  doubt  ourselves,  doubt  our  society,  tends  to  make 
us  take  a  strenuous,  serious  attitude  towards  life,  and 
not  be  too  quick  to  judge,  without  going  into  a  situation 
painfully,  carefully.  It  tends  to  complicate  the  present 
simplicity  of  our  moral  attitudes.  It  tends  to  make  us 
more  mature. 

The  above  are  the  main  reasons  why  I  should  like  to 
have  everybody  read  this  book. 

But  there  are  other  aspects  of  the  book  which  are 
interesting  and  valuable  in  a  more  special,  more  limited 
way ;  aspects  in  which  only  comparatively  few  persons 
will  be  interested,  and  which  will  arouse  the  opposition 
and  hostility  of  many.  The  Russian  Nihilistic  origin  of 
Berkman,  his  Anarchistic  experience  in  America,  his  at¬ 
tempt  on  the  life  of  Frick — an  attempt  made  at  a  violent 


AS  INTRODUCTORY 


industrial  crisis,  an  attempt  made  as  a  result  of  a  sincere 
if  fanatical  belief  that  he  was  called  on  by  his  destiny 
to  strike  a  psychological  blow  for  the  oppressed  of  the 
community — this  part  of  the  book  will  arouse  extreme 
disagreement  and  disapproval  of  his  ideas  and  his  act. 
But  I  see  no  reason  why  this,  with  the  rest,  should  not 
rather  be  regarded  as  an  integral  part  of  a  human  docu¬ 
ment,  as  part  of  the  record  of  a  life,  with  its  social  and 
psychological  suggestions  and  explanations.  Why  not 
try  to  understand  an  honest  man  even  if  he  feels  called 
on  to  kill?  There,  too,  it  may  be  deeply  instructive. 
There,  too,  it  has  its  lessons.  Read  it  not  in  a  combative 
spirit.  Read  to  understand.  Do  not  read  to  agree,  of 
course,  but  read  to  see. 

Hutchins  Hapgood. 


\ 


CONTENTS 


Part  I :  The  Awakening  and  Its  Toll 

Chapter  Page 

I.  The  Call  of  Homestead .  i 

II.  The  Seat  of  War . 23 

III.  The  Spirit  of  Pittsburgh .  28 

IV.  The  Attentat .  33 

V.  The  Third  Degree .  36 

VI.  The  Jail .  44 

VII.  The  Trial . 89 

Part  II:  The  Penitentiary 

I.  Desperate  Thoughts . 95 

II.  The  Will  to  Live . 113 

III.  Spectral  Silence . 120 

IV.  A  Ray  of  Light . 124 

_V.  The  Shop . 128 

VI.  My  First  Letter . 136 

VII.  Wingie  . 140 

VIII.  To  the  Girl . 148 

IX.  Persecution  . 152 

X.  The  Yegg . 159 

XI.  The  Route  Sub  Rosa . 174 

XII.  “Zuchthausbluethen”  . 176 

XIII.  The  Judas . 185 

XIV.  The  Dip . 195 

XV.  The  Urge  of  Sex . 201 

XVI.  The  Warden's  Threat . 209 

XVII.  The  “Basket"  Cell . 219 

XVIII.  The  Solitary . 221 

XIX.  Memory-Guests . 232 

XX.  A  Day  in  the  Cell-House . 240 

XXI.  The  Deeds  of  the  Good  to  the  Evil.  .264 

XXII.  The  Grist  of  the  Prison-Mill . 270 

XXIII.  The  Scales  of  Justice . 287 

XXIV.  Thoughts  that  Stole  Out  of  Prison.. 297 

XXV.  How  Shall  the  Depths  Cry? . 300 

XXVI.  Hiding  the  Evidence . 307 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

XXVII.  Love's  Dungeon  Flower . 316 

XXVIII.  For  Safety . 328 

XXIX.  Dreams  of  Freedom . 330 

XXX.  Whitewashed  Again . 337 

XXXI.  “And  by  All  Forgot,  We  Rot  and  Rot”342 
XXXII.  The  Deviousness  of  Reform  Law 

___  Applied  . 352 

"XXXIII.  The  Tunnel . 355 

XXXIV.  The  Death  of  Dick . 363 

XXXV.  An  Alliance  With  the  Birds . 364 

XXXVI.  The  Underground . 375 

XXXVII.  Anxious  Days . 382 

XXXVIII.  “How  Men  Their  Brothers  Maim”.  .  .389 

XXXIX.  A  New  Plan  of  Escape . 395 

XL.  Done  to  Death . 401 

_XLI.  The  Shock  at  Buffalo . 409 

XLII.  Marred  Lives . 418 

XLIII.  “Passing  the  Love  of  Woman” . 430 

XLI V.  Love's  D ari  ng . 441 

~  XLV.  The  Bloom  of  “The  Barren  Staff”.. 446 

XL VI.  A  Child's  Heart-Hunger . 453 

XLVII.  Chum  . ,...458 

XLVIII.  Last  Days . 465 

Part  III 

The  Workhouse . 473 

Part  IV 

The  Resurrection . 483 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Alexander  Berkman  (Frontispiece) 

The  Author  at  the  Time  of  the  Homestead  Strike 
Western  Penitentiary  of  Pennsylvania 
Facsimile  of  Prison  Letter 
“Zuchthausbluethen” 

Cell  Ranges 
The  Tunnel 


1  •  I 


l 


PART  I 


THE  AWAKENING  AND  ITS  TOLL 


- 


ALEXANDER  BERKMAN 


At  the  time  of  the  Homestead  Strike 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 

I 

Clearly  every  detail  of  that  day  is  engraved  on  my 
mind.  It  is  the  sixth  of  July,  1892.  We  are  quietly 
sitting  in  the  back  of  our  little  flat — Fedya  and  I — 
when  suddenly  the  Girl  enters.  Her  naturally  quick, 
energetic  step  sounds  more  than  usually  resolute.  As 
I  turn  to  her,  I  am  struck  by  the  peculiar  gleam  in  her 
eyes  and  the  heightened  color. 

“Have  you  read  it?”  she  cries,  waving  the  half-open 
newspaper. 

“What  is  it?” 

“Homestead.  Strikers  shot.  Pinkertons  have  killed 
women  and  children.” 

She  speaks  in  a  quick,  jerky  manner.  Her  words 
ring  like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal,  the  melodious 
voice  tinged  with  the  harshness  of  bitterness — the 
bitterness  of  helpless  agony. 

I  take  the  paper  from  her  hands.  In  growing  excite¬ 
ment  I  read  the  vivid  account  of  the  tremendous 
struggle,  the.  Homestead  strike,  or,  more  correctly,  the 
lockout.  The  report  details  the  conspiracy  on  the 
part  of  the  Carnegie  Company  to  crush  the  Amalga¬ 
mated  Association  of  Iron  and  Steel  Workers;  the  se¬ 
lection,  for  the  purpose,  of  Henry  Clay  Frick,  whose 
attitude  toward  labor  is  implacably  hostile;  his  secret 
military  preparations  while  designedly  prolonging  the 

1 


2  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

peace  negotiations  with  the  Amalgamated;  the  fortifica¬ 
tion  of  the  Homestead  steel-works;  the  erection  of  a 
high  board  fence,  capped  by  barbed  wire  and  provided 
with  loopholes  for  sharpshooters ;  the  hiring  of  an  army 
of  Pinkerton  thugs ;  the  attempt  to  smuggle  them,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  into  Homestead ;  and,  finally,  the  terrible 
carnage. 

I  pass  the  paper  to  Fedya.  The  Girl  glances  at  me. 
We  sit  in  silence,  each  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 
Only  now  and  then  we  exchange  a  word,  a  searching, 
significant  look. 


II 

It  is  hot  and  stuffy  in  the  train.  The  air  is  oppres¬ 
sive  with  tobacco  smoke;  the  boisterous  talk  of  the 
men  playing  cards  near  by  annoys  me.  I  turn  to  the 
window.  The  gust  of  perfumed  air,  laden  with  the 
rich  aroma  of  fresh-mown  hay,  is  soothingly  invigorating. 
Green  woods  and  yellow  fields  circle  in  the  distance, 
whirl  nearer,  close,  then  rush  by,  giving  place  to  other 
circling  fields  and  woods.  The  country  looks  young  and 
alluring  in  the  early  morning  sunshine.  But  my  thoughts 
are  busy  with  Homestead. 

The  great  battle  has  been  fought.  Never  before,  in 
all  its  history,  has  American  labor  won  such  a  signal 
victory.  By  force  of  arms  the  workers  of  Homestead 
have  compelled  three  hundred  Pinkerton  invaders  to  sur¬ 
render,  to  surrender  most  humbly,  ignominiously.  What 
humiliating  defeat  for  the  powers  that  be !  Does  not  the 
Pinkerton  janizary  represent  organized  authority,  forever 
crushing  the  toiler  in  the  interest  of  the  exploiters? 
Well  may  the  enemies  of  the  People  be  terrified  at  the 
unexpected  awakening.  But  the  People,  the  workers  of 
America,  have  joyously  acclaimed  the  rebellious  man- 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


3 


* 

hood  of  Homestead.  The  steel-workers  were  not  the 
aggressors.  Resignedly  they  had  toiled  and  suffered.  Out 
of  their  flesh  and  bone  grew  the  great  steel  industry; 
on  their  blood  fattened  the  powerful  Carnegie  Com¬ 
pany.  Yet  patiently  they  had  waited  for  the  promised 
greater  share  of  the  wealth  they  were  creating.  Like 
a  bolt  from  a  clear  sky  came  the  blow :  wages  were 
to  be  reduced !  Peremptorily  the  steel  magnates  refused 
to  continue  the  sliding  scale  previously  agreed  upon  as 
a  guarantee  of  peace.  The  Carnegie  firm  challenged  the 
Amalgamated  Association  by  the  submission  of  condi¬ 
tions  which  it  knew  the  workers  could  not  accept. 
Foreseeing  refusal,  it  flaunted  warlike  preparations 
to  crush  the  union  under  the  iron  heel.  Perfidious 
Carnegie  shrank  from  the  task,  having  recently  pro¬ 
claimed  the  gospel  of  good  will  and  harmony.  “I  would 
lay  it  down  as  a  maxim,”  he  had  declared,  “that  there 
is  no  excuse  for  a  strike  or  a  lockout  until  arbitration 
of  differences  has  been  offered  by  one  party  and  refused 
by  the  other.  The  right  of  the  workingmen  to  combine 
and  to  form  trades-unions  is  no  less  sacred  than  the 
right  of  the  manufacturer  to  enter  into  association  and 
conference  with  his  fellows,  and  it  must  sooner  or  later 
be  conceded.  Manufacturers  should  meet  their  men 
more  than  half-way” 

With  smooth  words  the  great  philanthropist  had 
persuaded  the  workers  to  indorse  the  high  tariff. 
Every  product  of  his  mills  protected,  Andrew 
Carnegie  secured  a  reduction  in  the  duty  on  steel 
billets,  in  return  for  his  generous  contribution  to 
the  Republican  campaign  fund.  In  complete  control  of 
the  billet  market,  the  Carnegie  firm  engineered  a 
depression  of  prices,  as  a  seeming  consequence  of  a 
lower  duty.  But  the  market  price  of  billets  was  the  sole 
standard  of  wages  in  the  Homestead  mills.  The  wages 


4 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


of  the  workers  must  be  reduced!  The  offer  of  the 
Amalgamated  Association  to  arbitrate  the  new  scale  met 
with  contemptuous  refusal:  there  was  nothing  to 
arbitrate;  the  men  must  submit  unconditionally;  the 
union  was  to  be  exterminated.  And  Carnegie  selected 
Henry  C.  Frick,  the  bloody  Frick  of  the  coke  regions, 
to  carry  the  program  into  execution. 

Must  the  oppressed  forever  submit?  The  manhood 

of  Homestead  rebelled:  the  millmen  scorned  the  des- 

\ 

potic  ultimatum.  Then  Frick’s  hand  fell.  The  war  was 
on!  Indignation  swept  the  country.  Throughout  the 
land  the  tyrannical  attitude  of  the  Carnegie  Company 
was  bitterly  denounced,  the  ruthless  brutality  of  Frick 
universally  execrated. 

I  could  no  longer  remain  indifferent.  The  moment 
was  urgent.  The  toilers  of  Homestead  had  defied  the 
oppressor.  They  were  awakening.  But  as  yet  the 
steel-workers  were  only  blindly  rebellious.  The  vision  of 
Anarchism  alone  could  imbue  discontent  with  conscious 
revolutionary  purpose ;  it  alone  could  lend  wings  to  the 
aspirations  of  labor.  The  dissemination  of  our  ideas 
among  the  proletariat  of  Homestead  would  illumine  the 
great  struggle,  help  to  clarify  the  issues,  and  point  the 
way  to  complete  ultimate  emancipation. 

My  days  were  feverish  with  anxiety.  The  stirring 
call,  “Labor,  Awaken !”  would  fire  the  hearts  of  the  dis¬ 
inherited,  and  inspire  them  to  noble  deeds.  It  would 
carry  to  the  oppressed  the  message  of  the  New  Day,  and 
prepare  them  for  the  approaching  Social  Revolution. 
Homestead  might  prove  the  first  blush  of  the  glorious 
Dawn.  How  I  chafed  at  the  obstacles  my  project 
encountered !  Unexpected  difficulties  impeded  every 
step.  The  efforts  to  get  the  leaflet  translated  into 
popular  English  proved  unavailing.  It  would  endanger 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


5 


me  to  distribute  such  a  fiery  appeal,  my  friend  remon¬ 
strated.  Impatiently  I  waived  aside  his  objections.  As 
if  personal  considerations  could  for  an  instant  be 
weighed  in  the  scale  of  the  great  Cause!  But  in  vain 
I  argued  and  pleaded.  And  all  the  while  precious 
moments  were  being  wasted,  and  new  obstacles  barred 
the  way.  I  rushed  frantically  from  printer  to  com¬ 
positor,  begging,  imploring.  None  dared  print  the 
appeal.  And  time  was  fleeting.  Suddenly  flashed  the 
news  of  the  Pinkerton  carnage.  The  world  stood 
aghast. 

The  time  for  speech  was  past.  Throughout  the  land 
the  toilers  echoed  the  defiance  of  the  men  of  Homestead. 
The  steel-workers  had  rallied  bravely  to  the  defence ;  the 
murderous  Pinkertons  were  driven  from  the  city.  But 
loudly  called  the  blood  of  Mammon’s  victims  on  the 
banks  of  the  Monongahela.  Loudly  it  calls.  It  is  the 
People  calling.  Ah,  the  People !  The  grand,  mysterious, 
yet  so  near  and  real,  People.  .  .  . 

In  my  mind  I  see  myself  back  in  the  little  Russian 
college  town,  amid  the  circle  of  Petersburg  students,  home 
for  their  vacation,  surrounded  by  the  halo  of  that  vague 
and  wonderful  something  we  called  “Nihilist.”  The  rush¬ 
ing  train,  Homestead,  the  five  years  passed  in  America,  all 
turn  into  a  mist,  hazy  with  the  distance  of  unreality,  of 
centuries;  and  again  I  sit  among  superior  beings,  rever¬ 
ently  listening  to  the  impassioned  discussion  of  dimly 
understood  high  themes,  with  the  oft-recurring  refrain  of 
“Bazarov,  Hegel,  Liberty,  Chernishevsky,  v  narod.”  To 
the  People!  To  the  beautiful,  simple  People,  so  noble 
in  spite  of  centuries  of  brutalizing  suffering!  Like  a 
clarion  call  the  note  rings  in  my  ears,  amidst  the  din  of 
contending  views  and  obscure  phraseology.  The  People ! 
My  Greek  mythology  moods  have  often  pictured  him 


6 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


to  me  as  the  mighty  Atlas,  supporting  on  his  shoulders 
the  weight  of  the  world,  his  back  bent,  his  face  the 
mirror  of  unutterable  misery,  in  his  eye  the  look  of 
hopeless  anguish,  the  dumb,  pitiful  appeal  for  help. 
Ah,  to  help  this  helplessly  suffering  giant,  to  lighten  his 
burden!  The  way  is  obscure,  the  means  uncertain,  but 
in  the  heated  student  debate  the  note  rings  clear:  To 
the  People,  become  one  of  them,  share  their  joys  and 
sorrows,  and  thus  you  will  teach  them.  Yes,  that  is  the 
solution!  But  what  is  that  red-headed  Misha  from 
Odessa  saying?  “It  is  all  good  and  well  about  going  to 
the  People,  but  the  energetic  men  of  the  deed,  the 
Rakhmetovs,  blaze  the  path  of  popular  revolution  by 
individual  acts  of  revolt  against — ” 

“Ticket,  please!”  A  heavy  hand  is  on  my  shoulder. 
With  an  effort  I  realize  the  situation.  The  card-players 
are  exchanging  angry  words.  With  a  deft  movement 
the  conductor  unhooks  the  board,  and  calmly  walks 
away  with  it  under  his  arm.  A  roar  of  laughter  greets 
the  players.  Twitted  by  the  other  passengers,  they  soon 
subside,  and  presently  the  car  grows  quiet. 

I  have  difficulty  in  keeping  myself  from  falling  back 
into  reverie.  I  must  form  a  definite  plan  of  action.  My 
purpose  is  quite  clear  to  me.  A  tremendous  struggle  is 
taking  place  at  Homestead:  the  People  are  manifesting 
the  right  spirit  in  resisting  tyranny  and  invasion.  My 
heart  exults.  This  is,  at  last,  what  I  have  always 
hoped  for  from  the  American  workingman:  once 
aroused,  he  will  brook  no  interference;  he  will  fight  all 
obstacles,  and  conquer  even  more  than  his  original 
demands.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  heroic  past  reincarnated 
in  the  steel-workers  of  Homestead,  Pennsylvania.  What 
supreme  joy  to  aid  in  this  work!  That  is  my  natural 
mission.  I  feel  the  strength  of  a  great^ undertaking.  No 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


7 


shadow  of  doubt  crosses  my  mind.  The  People— the 
toilers  of  the  world,  the  producers — comprise,  to  me, 
the  universe.  They  alone  count.  The  rest  are  para? 
sites,  who  have  no  right  to  exist.  But  to  the  People 
belongs  the  earth — by  right,  if  not  in  fact.  To  make  if 
so  in  fact,  all  means  are  justifiable;  nay,  advisable,  even 
to  the  point  of  taking  life.  The  question  of  moral  right 
in  such  matters  often  agitated  the  revolutionary  circles 
I  used  to  frequent.  I  had  always  taken  the  extreme 
view.  The  more  radical  the  treatment,  I  held,  the 
quicker  the  cure.  Society  is  a  patient;  sick  constitu¬ 
tionally  and  functionally.  Surgical  treatment  is  often  im¬ 
perative.  The  removal  of  a  tyrant  is  not  merely  justifi¬ 
able;  it  is  the  highest  duty  of  every  true  revolutionist. 
Human  life  is,  indeed,  sacred  and  inviolate.  But 
the  killing  of  a  tyrant,  of  an  enemy  of  the  People, 
is  in  no  way  to  be  considered  as  the  taking  of  a 
life.  A  revolutionist  would  rather  perish  a  thousand 
times  than  be  guilty  of  what  is  ordinarily  called  murder. 
In  truth,  murder  and  Attentat*  are  to  me  opposite  terms. 
To  remove  a  tyrant  is  an  act  of  liberation,  the  giving  of 
life  and  opportunity  to  an  oppressed  people.  True,  the 
Cause  often  calls  upon  the  revolutionist  to  commit  an 
unpleasant  act;  but  it  is  the  test  of  a  true  revolutionist — 
nay,  more,  his  pride — to  sacrifice  all  merely  human 
feeling  at  the  call  of  the  People’s  Cause.  If  the  latter 
demand  his  life,  so  much  the  better. 

Could  anything  be  nobler  than  to  die  for  a 
grand,  a  sublime  Cause?  Why,  the  very  life  of  a 
true  revolutionist  has  no  other  purpose,  no  signifi¬ 
cance  whatever,  save  to  sacrifice  it  on  the  altar  of 
the  beloved  People.  And  what  could  be  higher  in 
life  than  to  be  a  true  revolutionist?  It  is  to  be  a  man, 


*  An  act  of  political  assassination. 


8 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


a  complete  man.  A  being  who  has  neither  personal 
interests  nor  desires  above  the  necessities  of  the  Cause; 
one  who  has  emancipated  himself  from  being  merely 
human,  and  has  risen  above  that,  even  to  the  height 
of  conviction  which  excludes  all  doubt,  all  regret;  in 
short,  one  who  in  the  very  inmost  of  his  soul  feels 
himself  revolutionist  first,  human  afterwards. 

Such  a  revolutionist  I  feel  myself  to  be.  Indeed, 
far  more  so  than  even  the  extreme  radicals  of  my  own 
circle.  My  mind  reverts  to  a  characteristic  incident  in 
connection  with  the  poet  Edelstadt.  It  was  in  New 
York,  about  the  year  1890.  Edelstadt,  one  of  the 
tenderest  of  souls,  was  beloved  by  every  one  in  our 
circle,  the  Pioneers  of  Liberty,  the  first  Jewish  Anarchist 
organization  on  American  soil.  One  evening  the  closer 
personal  friends  of  Edelstadt  met  to  consider  plans  for 
aiding  the  sick  poet.  It  was  decided  to  send  our  comrade 
to  Denver,  some  one  suggesting  that  money  be  drawn 
for  the  "purpose  from  the  revolutionary  treasury.  I 
objected.  Though  a  dear,  personal  friend  of  Edelstadt, 
and  his  former  roommate,  I  could  not  allow — I  argued — 
that  funds  belonging  to  the  movement  be  devoted  to 
private  purposes,  however  good  and  even  necessary 
those  might  be.  The  strong  disapproval  of  my  senti¬ 
ments  I  met  with  this  challenge :  “Do  you  mean  to 
help  Edelstadt,  the  poet  and  man,  or  Edelstadt  the 
revolutionist?  Do  you  consider  him  a  true,  active  revo¬ 
lutionist?  His  poetry  is  beautiful,  indeed,  and  may 
indirectly  even  prove  of  some  propagandistic  value.  Aid 
our  friend  with  your  private  funds,  if  you  will;  but  no 
money  from  the  movement  can  be  given,  except  for 
direct  revolutionary  activity.” 

“Do  you  mean  that  the  poet  is  less  to  you  than 
the  revolutionist?”  I  was  asked  by  Tikhon,  a  young 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


9 


medical  student,  whom  we  playfully  dubbed  “Lingg,” 
because  of  his  rather  successful  affectation  of  the 
celebrated  revolutionist’s  physical  appearance. 

“I  am  revolutionist  first,  man  afterwards,”  I  replied,  j 
with  conviction. 

“You  are  either  a  knave  or  a  hero,”  he  retorted. 

“Lingg”  was  quite  right.  He  could  not  know  me. 
To  his  bourgeois  mind,  for  all  his  imitation  of  the 
Chicago  martyr,  my  words  must  have  sounded  knavish. 
Well,  some  day  he  may  know  which  I  am,  knave  or 
revolutionist.  I  do  not  think  in  the  term  “hero,”  for 
though  the  type  of  revolutionist  I  feel  myself  to  be 
might  popularly  be  so  called,  the  word  has  no  significance 
for  me.  It  merely  means  a  revolutionist  who  does 
his  duty.  There  is  no  heroism  in  that:  it  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  revolutionist  should  do.  Rakhmetov 
did  more,  too  much.  In  spite  of  my  great  admiration 
for  Chernishevsky,  who  had  so  strongly'  influenced 
the  Russian  youth  of  my  time,  I  can  not  suppress 
the  touch  of  resentment  I  feel  because  the  author 
of  “What’s  To  Be  Done?”  represented  his  arch¬ 
revolutionist  Rakhmetov  as  going  through  a  system  of 
unspeakable,  self-inflicted  torture  to  prepare  himself  for 
future  exigencies.  It  was  a  sign  of  weakness.  Does  a 
real  revolutionist  need  to  prepare  himself,  to  steel  his 
nerves  and  harden  his  body  ?  I  feel  it  almost  a  personal  ^ 
insult,  this  suggestion  of  the  revolutionist’s  mere 
human  clay. 

No,  the  thorough  revolutionist  needs  no  such  self- 
doubting  preparations.  For  I  know  /  do  not  need  them. 
The  feeling  is  quite  impersonal,  strange  as  it  may 
seem.  My  own  individuality  is  entirely  in  the  back¬ 
ground;  aye,  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  personality 
in  matters  pertaining  to  the  Cause.  I  am  simply  a 


IO 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


revolutionist,  a  terrorist  by  conviction,  an  instrument 
for  furthering  the  cause  of  humanity;  in  short,  a 
Rakhmetov.  Indeed,  I  shall  assume  that  name  upon 
my  arrival  in  Pittsburgh. 

The  piercing  shrieks  of  the  locomotive  awake  me  with 
a  start.  My  first  thought  is  of  my  wallet,  containing 
important  addresses  of  Allegheny  comrades,  which  I  was 
trying  to  memorize  when  I  must  have  fallen  asleep. 
The  wallet  is  gone!  For  a  moment  I  am  overwhelmed 
with  terror.  What  if  it  is  lost?  Suddenly  my  foot 
touches  something  soft.  I  pick  it  up,  feeling  tremen¬ 
dously  relieved  to  find  all  the  contents  safe :  the 
precious  addresses,  a  small  newspaper  lithograph  of 
Frick,  and  a  dollar  bill.  My  joy  at  recovering  the  wallet 
is  not  a  whit  dampened  by  the  meagerness  of  my  funds. 
The  dollar  will  do  to  get  a  room  in  a  hotel  for  the  first 
night,  and  in  the  morning  I’ll  look  up  Nold  or  Bauer. 
They  will  find  a  place  for  me  to  stay  a  day  or  two.  “I 
won’t  remain  there  long,”  I  think,  with  an  inward  smile. 

We  are  nearing  Washington,  D.  C.  The  train  is  to 
make  a  six-hour  stop  there.  I  curse  the  stupidity  of  the 
delay:  something  may  be  happening  in  Pittsburgh  or 
Homestead.  Besides,  no  time  is  to  be  lost  in  striking  a 
telling  blow,  while  public  sentiment  is  aroused  at  the 
atrocities  of  the  Carnegie  Company,  the  brutality  of 
Frick. 

Yet  my  irritation  is  strangely  dispelled  by  the  beautiful 
picture  that  greets  my  eye  as  I  step  from  the  train.  The 
sun  has  risen,  a  large  ball  of  deep  red,  pouring  a  flood  of 
gold  upon  the  Capitol.  The  cupola  rears  its  proud  head 
majestically  above  the  pile  of  stone  and  marble.  Like  a 
living  thing  the  light  palpitates,  trembling  with  passion 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


II 


to  kiss  the  uppermost  peak,  striking  it  with  blinding  bril¬ 
liancy,  and  then  spreading  in  a  broadening  embrace  down 
the  shoulders  of  the  towering  giant.  The  amber  waves 
entwine  its  flanks  with  soft  caresses,  and  then  rush 
on,  to  right  and  left,  wider  and  lower,  flashing  upon 
the  stately  trees,  dallying  amid  leaves  and  branches, 
finally  unfolding  themselves  over  the  broad  avenue,  and 
ever  growing  more  golden  and  generous  as  they  scatter. 
And  cupola-headed  giant,  stately  trees,  and  broad  avenue 
quiver  with  new-born  ecstasy,  all  nature  heaves  the 
contented  sigh  of  bliss,  and  nestles  closer  to  the  golden 
giver  of  life. 

At  this  moment  I  realize,  as  perhaps  never  before, 
the  great  joy,  the  surpassing  gladness,  of  being.  But  in 
a  trice  the  picture  changes.  Before  my  eyes  rises  the 
Monongahela  river,  carrying  barges  filled  with  armed 
men.  And  I  hear  a  shot.  A  boy  falls  to  the  gangplank. 
The  blood  gushes  from  the  centre  of  his  forehead.  The 
hole  ploughed  by  the  bullet  yawns  black  on  the  crimson 
face.  Cries  and  wailing  ring  in  my  ears.  I  see  men 
running  toward  the  river,  and  women  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  the  dead. 

The  horrible  vision  revives  in  my  mind  a  similar  in¬ 
cident,  lived  through  in  imagination  before.  It  was  the 
sight  of  an  executed  Nihilist.  The  Nihilists!  How 
much  of  their  precious  blood  has  been  shed,  how 
many  thousands  of  them  line  the  road  of  Russia’s 
suffering!  Inexpressibly  near  and  soul-kin  I  feel  to  those 
men  and  women,  the  adored,  mysterious  ones  of  my 
youth,  who  had  left  wealthy  homes  and  high  station  to 
“go  to  the  People,”  to  become  one  with  them,  though 
despised  by  all  whom  they  held  dear,  persecuted  and 
ridiculed  even  by  the  benighted  objects  of  their  great 
sacrifice. 


12  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

Clearly  there  flashes  out  upon  my  memory  my  first 
impression  of  Nihilist  Russia.  I  had  just  passed  my 
second  year's  gymnasium  examinations.  Overflowing 
with  blissful  excitement,  I  rushed  into  the  house  to 
tell  mother  the  joyful  news.  How  happy  it  will  make 
her!  Next  week  will  be  my  twelfth  birthday,  but 
mother  need  give  me  no  present.  I  have  one  for 
her,  instead.  “Mamma,  mamma!”  I  called,  when  sud¬ 
denly  I  caught  her  voice,  raised  in  anger.  Something 
has  happened,  I  thought;  mother  never  speaks  so 
loudly.  Something  very  peculiar,  I  felt,  noticing  the 
door  leading  from  the  broad  hallway  to  the  dining-room 
closed,  contrary  to  custom.  In  perturbation  I  hesitated 
at  the  door.  “Shame  on  you,  Nathan,”  I  heard  my 
mother’s  voice,  “to  condemn  your  own  brother  because 
he  is  a  Nihilist.  You  are  no  better  than” — her  voice 
fell  to  a  whisper,  but  my  straining  ear  distinctly  caught 
the  dread  word,  uttered  with  hatred  and  fear — “a 
paldtch 

I  was  struck  with  terror.  Mother’s  tone,  my  rich 
uncle  Nathan’s  unwonted  presence  at  our  house,  the 
fearful  word  paldtch — something  awful  must  have  hap¬ 
pened.  I  tiptoed  out  of  the  hallway,  and  ran  to  my 
room.  Trembling  with  fear,  I  threw  myself  on  the 
bed.  What  has  the  paldtch  done?  I  moaned.  “Your 
brother,”  she  had  said  to  uncle.  Her  own  youngest 
brother,  my  favorite  uncle  Maxim.  Oh,  what  has  hap¬ 
pened  to  him?  My  excited  imagination  conjured  up 
horrible  visions.  There  stood  the  powerful  figure  of 
the  giant  paldtch,  all  in  black,  his  right  arm  bare  to  the 
shoulder,  in  his  hand  the  uplifted  ax.  I  could  see  the 
glimmer  of  the  sharp  steel  as  it  began  to  descend,  slowly, 
so  torturingly  slowly,  while  my  heart  ceased  beating  and 


*  Hangman. 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


13 


my  feverish  eyes  followed,  bewitched,  the  glowing  black 
coals  in  the  palatch’s  head.  Suddenly  the  two  fiery  eyes 
fused  into  a  large  ball  of  flaming  red ;  the  figure  of  the 
fearful  one-eyed  cyclop  grew  taller  and  stretched  higher 
and  higher,  and  everywhere  was  the  giant — on  all  sides 
of  me  was  he — then  a  sudden  flash  of  steel,  and 
in  his  monster  hand  I  saw  raised  a  head,  cut  close  to  the 
neck,  its  eyes  incessantly  blinking,  the  dark-red  blood 
gushing  from  mouth  and  ears  and  throat.  Something 
looked  ghastly  familiar  about  that  head  with  the  broad 
white  forehead  and  expressive  mouth,  so  sweet  and  sad. 
“Oh,  Maxim,  Maxim  !”  I  cried,  terror-stricken :  the 
next  moment  a  flood  of  passionate  hatred  of  the  pal&tch 
seized  me,  and  I  rushed,  head  bent,  toward  the  one- 
eyed  monster.  Nearer  and  nearer  I  came, — another 
quick  rush,  and  then  the  violent  impact  of  my  body 
struck  him  in  the  very  centre,  and  he  fell,  forward  and 
heavy,  right  upon  me,  and  I  felt  his  fearful  weight 
crushing  my  arms,  my  chest,  my  head.  .  .  . 

“Sasha!  Sashenka!  What  is  the  matter,  golub- 
chik ?”  I  recognize  the  sweet,  tender  voice  of  my 
mother,  sounding  far  away  and  strange,  then  coming 
closer  and  growing  more  soothing.  I  open  my  eyes. 
Mother  is  kneeling  by  the  bed,  her  beautiful  black  eyes 
bathed  in  tears.  Passionately  she  showers  kisses  upon 
my  face  and  hands,  entreating:  “Golubchik,  what  is  it?” 

“Mamma,  what  happened  to  Uncle  Maxim?”  I 
ask,  breathlessly  watching  her  face. 

Her  sudden  change  of  expression  chills  my  heart 
with  fear.  She  turns  ghostly  white,  large  drops  of 
perspiration  stand  on  her  forehead,  and  her  eyes  grow 
large  and  round  with  terror.  “Mamma!”  I  cry,  throw¬ 
ing  my  arms  around  her.  Her  lips  move,  and  I  feel 
her  warm  breath  on  my  cheek;  but,  without  uttering  a 
word,  she  bursts  into  vehement  weeping. 


14  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Who — told — you?  You — know?”  she  whispers  be¬ 
tween  sobs. 

•  ••••••* 

The  pall  of  death  seems  to  have  descended  upon  our 
home.  The  house  is  oppressively  silent.  Everybody 
walks  about  in  slippers,  and  the  piano  is  kept  locked. 
Only  monosyllables,  in  undertone,  are  exchanged  at  the 
dinner-table.  Mother’s  seat  remains  vacant.  She  is 
very  ill,  the  nurse  informs  us;  no  one  is  to  see  her. 

The  situation  bewilders  me.  I  keep  wondering  what 
has  happened  to  Maxim.  Was  my  vision  of  the  palatch 
a  presentiment,  or  the  echo  of  an  accomplished  tragedy? 
Vaguely  I  feel  guilty  of  mother’s  illness.  The  shock  of 
my  question  may  be  responsible  for  her  condition.  Yet 
there  must  be  more  to  it,  I  try  to  persuade  my  troubled 
spirit.  One  afternoon,  finding  my  eldest  brother  Maxim, 
named  after  mother’s  favorite  brother,  in  a  very  cheerful 
mood,  I  call  him  aside  and  ask,  in  a  boldly  assumed  con¬ 
fidential  manner:  “Maximushka,  tell  me,  what  is  a  Ni¬ 
hilist  ?” 

“Go  to  the  devil,  molokossoss*  you !”  he  cries,  angrily. 
With  a  show  of  violence,  quite  inexplicable  to  me,  Maxim 
throws  his  paper  on  the  floor,  jumps  from  his  seat,  up¬ 
setting  the  chair,  and  leaves  the  room. 


The  fate  of  Uncle  Maxim  remains  a  mystery,  the 
question  of  Nihilism  unsolved.  I  am  absorbed  in  my 
studies.  Yet  a  deep  interest,  curiosity  about  the  mys¬ 
terious  and  forbidden,  slumbers  in  my  consciousness, 
when  quite  unexpectedly  it  is  roused  into  keen  activity 
by  a  school  incident.  I  am  fifteen  now,  in  the  fourth 
grade  of  the  classic  gymnasium  at  Kovno.  By  direction 

*  Literally,  milk-sucker.  A  contemptuous  term  applied  to 
inexperienced  youth. 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


15 


of  the  Ministry  of  Education,  compulsory  religious  in¬ 
struction  is  being  introduced  in  the  State  schools.  Spe¬ 
cial  classes  have  been  opened  at  the  gymnasium  for  the 
religious  instruction  of  Jewish  pupils.  The  parents  of 
the  latter  resent  the  innovation ;  almost  every  Jewish 
child  receives  religious  training  at  home  or  in  cheidar* 
But  the  school  authorities  have  ordered  the  gymnasiasts 
of  Jewish  faith  to  attend  classes  in  religion. 

The  roll-call  at  the  first  session  finds  me  missing. 
Summoned  before  the  Director  for  an  explanation,  I  state 
that  I  failed  to  attend  because  I  have  a  private  Jewish 
tutor  at  home,  and, — anyway,  I  do  not  believe  in  reli¬ 
gion.  The  prim  Director  looks  inexpressibly  shocked. 

“Young  man,”  he  addresses  me  in  the  artificial  gut¬ 
tural  voice  he  afifects  on  solemn  occasions.  “Young 
man,  when,  permit  me  to  ask,  did  you  reach  so  pro¬ 
found  a  conclusion?” 

His  manner  disconcerts  me ;  but  the  sarcasm  of 
his  words  and  the  offensive  tone  rouse  my  resentment. 
Impulsively,  defiantly,  I  discover  my  cherished  secret. 
“Since  I  wrote  the  essay,  ‘There  Is  No  God,’  ”  I 
reply,  with  secret  exultation.  But  the  next  instant  I 
realize  the  recklessness  of  my  confession.  I  have  a 
fleeting  sense  of  coming  trouble,  at  school  and  at  home. 
Yet  somehow  I  feel  I  have  acted  like  a  man.  Uncle 
Maxim,  the  Nihilist,  would  act  so  in  my  position.  I 
know  his  reputation  for  uncompromising  candor,  and 
love  him  for  his  bold,  frank  ways. 

“Oh,  that  is  interesting,”  I  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  the 
unpleasant  guttural  voice  of  the  Director.  “When  did 
you  write  it?” 

“Three  years  ago.” 

“How  old  were  you  then?” 


*  Schools  for  instruction  in  Jewish  religion  and  laws. 


l6  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Twelve.” 

“Have  you  the  essay?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” 

“At  home.” 

“Bring  it  to  me  to-morrow.  Without  fail,  remember.” 

His  voice  grows  stern.  The  words  fall  upon  my  ears 
with  the  harsh  metallic  sound  of  my  sister’s  piano  that 
memorable  evening  of  our  musicale  when,  in  a  spirit  of 
mischief,  I  hid  a  piece  of  gas  pipe  in  the  instrument 
tuned  for  the  occasion. 

“To-morrow,  then.  You  are  dismissed.” 

The  Educational  Board,  in  conclave  assembled,  reads 
the  essay.  My  disquisition  is  unanimously  condemned. 
Exemplary  punishment  is  to  be  visited  upon  me  for  “pre¬ 
cocious  godlessness,  dangerous  tendencies,  and  insubor¬ 
dination.”  I  am  publicly  reprimanded,  and  reduced  to 
the  third  class.  The  peculiar  sentence  robs  me  of  a 
year,  and  forces  me  to  associate  with  the  “children”  my 
senior  class  looks  down  upon  with  undisguised  contempt. 
I  feel  disgraced,  humiliated. 

•  ••••••• 

Thus  vision  chases  vision,  memory  succeeds  memory, 
while  the  interminable  hours  creep  towards  the  after¬ 
noon,  and  the  station  clock  drones  like  an  endless  old 
woman. 


Ill 

Over  at  last.  “All  aboard!” 

On  and  on  rushes  the  engine,  every  moment  bringing 
me  nearer  to  my  destination.  The  conductor  drawling 
out  the  stations,  the  noisy  going  and  coming  produce 
almost  no  conscious  impression  on  my  senses.  Seeing 
and  hearing  every  detail  of  my  surroundings,  I  am 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


1 7 


nevertheless  oblivious  to  them.  Faster  than  the  train 
rushes  my  fancy,  as  if  reviewing  a  panorama  of  vivid 
scenes,  apparently  without  organic  connection  with  each 
other,  yet  somehow  intimately  associated  in  my  thoughts 
of  the  past.  But  how  different  is  the  present!  I  am 
speeding  toward  Pittsburgh,  the  very  heart  of  the 
industrial  struggle  of  America.  America !  I  dwell  won- 
deringly  on  the  unuttered  sound.  Why  in  America? 
And  again  unfold  pictures  of  old  scenes. 

I  am  walking  in  the  garden  of  our  well-appointed 
country  place,  in  a  fashionable  suburb  of  St.  Petersburg, 
where  the  family  generally  spends  the  summer  months. 
As  I  pass  the  veranda,  Dr.  Semeonov,  the  celebrated 
physician  of  the  resort,  steps  out  of  the  house  and 
beckons  to  me. 

“Alexander  Ossipovitch,”  he  addresses  me  in  his 
courtly  manner,  “your  mother  is  very  ill.  Are  you  alone 
with  her?” 

“We  have  servants,  and  two  nurses  are  in  attend¬ 
ance,”  I  reply. 

“To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,”  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
hovers  about  the  corners  of  his  delicately  chiseled  lips. 
“I  mean  of  the  family.” 

“Oh,  yes !  I  am  alone  here  with  my  mother.” 

“Your  mother  is  rather  restless  to-day,  Alexander 
Ossipovitch.  Could  you  sit  up  with  her  to-night?” 

“Certainly,  certainly,”  I  quickly  assent,  wondering  at 
the  peculiar  request.  Mother  has  been  improving,  the 
nurses  have  assured  me.  My  presence  at  her  bedside 
may  prove  irksome  to  her.  Our  relations  have  been 
strained  since  the  day  when,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  she  slapped 
Rose,  our  new  chambermaid,  whereupon  I  resented 
mother’s  right  to  inflict  physical  punishment  on  the 
servants.  I  can  see  her  now,  erect  and  haughty,  facing 


18  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

me  across  the  dinner- table,  her  eyes  ablaze  with 
indignation. 

“You  forget  you  are  speaking  to  your  mother, 
Al-ex-an-der” ;  she  pronounces  the  name  in  four  distinct 
syllables,  as  is  her  habit  when  angry  with  me. 

“You  have  no  right  to  strike  the  girl,”  I  retort, 
defiantly. 

“You  forget  yourself.  My  treatment  of  the  menial 
is  no  concern  of  yours.” 

I  cannot  suppress  the  sharp  reply  that  springs  to  my 
lips :  “The  low  servant  girl  is  as  good  as  you.” 

I  see  mother’s  long,  slender  fingers  grasp  the  heavy 
ladle,  and  the  next  instant  a  sharp  pain  pierces  my 
left  hand.  Our  eyes  meet.  Her  arm  remains  motionless, 
her  gaze  directed  to  the  spreading  blood  stain  on  the 
white  table-cloth.  The  ladle  falls  from  her  hand.  She 
closes  her  eyes,  and  her  body  sinks  limply  to  the  chair. 

Anger  and  humiliation  extinguish  my  momentary 
impulse  to  rush  to  her  assistance.  Without  uttering  a 
word,  I  pick  up  the  heavy  saltcellar,  and  fling  it  violently 
against  the  French  mirror.  At  the  crash  of  the  glass 
my  mother  opens  her  eyes  in  amazement.  I  rise  and 
leave  the  house. 

My  heart  beats  fast  as  I  enter  mother’s  sick-room. 
I  fear  she  may  resent  my  intrusion:  the  shadow  of 
the  past  stands  between  us.  But  she  is  lying  quietly 
on  the  bed,  and  has  apparently  not  noticed  my 
entrance.  I  sit  down  at  the  bedside.  A  long  time  passes 
in  silence.  Mother  seems  to  be  asleep.  It  is  growing 
dark  in  the  room,  and  I  settle  down  to  pass  the  night  in 
the  chair.  Suddenly  I  hear  “Sasha!”  called  in  a  weak, 
faint  voice.  I  bend  over  her.  “Drink  of  water.”  As  I 
hold  the  glass  to  her  lips,  she  slightly  turns  away  her 
head,  saying  very  low,  “Ice  water,  please.”  I  start  to 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


19 


leave  the  room.  “Sasha !”  I  hear  behind  me,  and,  quickly- 
tiptoeing  to  the  bed,  I  bring  my  face  closely,  very  closely 
to  hers,  to  catch  the  faint  words:  “Help  me  turn  to  the 
wall.”  Tenderly  I  wrap  my  arms  around  the  weak, 
emaciated  body,  and  an  overpowering  longing  seizes  me 
to  touch  her  hand  with  my  lips  and  on  my  knees  beg 
her  forgiveness.  I  feel  so  near  to  her,  my  heart  is  over¬ 
flowing  with  compassion  and  love.  But  I  dare  not  kiss 
her — we  have  become  estranged.  Affectionately  I  hold 
her  in  my  arms  for  just  the  shadow  of  a  second, 
dreading  lest  she  suspect  the  storm  of  emotion  raging 
within  me.  Caressingly  I  turn  her  to  the  wall,  and,  as 
I  slowly  withdraw,  I  feel  as  if  some  mysterious,  yet 
definite,  something  has  at  the  very  instant  left  her  body. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  return  with  a  glass  of  ice  water. 
I  hold  it  to  her  lips,  but  she  seems  oblivious  of  my 
presence.  “She  cannot  have  gone  to  sleep  so  quickly,” 
I  wonder.  “Mother!”  I  call,  softly.  No  reply.  “Little 
mother !  Mamotchka !”  She  does  not  appear  to  hear  me. 
“Dearest,  golubchick !”  I  cry,  in  a  paroxysm  of  sudden 
fear,  pressing  my  hot  lips  upon  her  face.  Then  I  become 
conscious  of  an  arm  upon  my  shoulder,  and  hear  the 
measured  voice  of  the  doctor:  “My  boy,  you  must  bear 
up.  She  is  at  rest.” 

IV 

“Wake  up,  young  feller!  Whatcher  sighin’  for?” 
Bewildered  I  turn  around  to  meet  the  coarse,  yet  not 
unkindly,  face  of  a  swarthy  laborer  in  the  seat  back 
of  me. 

“Oh,  nothing;  just  dreaming,”  I  reply.  Not  wishing 
to  encourage  conversation,  I  pretend  to  become  absorbed 
in  my  book. 

How  strange  is  the  sudden  sound  of  English ! 


20 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Almost  as  suddenly  had  I  been  transplanted  to  Amer¬ 
ican  soil.  Six  months  passed  after  my  mother’s  death. 
Threatened  by  the  educational  authorities  with  a  “wolf’s 
passport”  on  account  of  my  “dangerous  tendencies” — 
which  would  close  every  professional  avenue  to  me,  in 
spite  of  my  otherwise  very  satisfactory  standing — the 
situation  aggravated  by  a  violent  quarrel  with  my 
guardian,  Uncle  Nathan,  I  decided  to  go  to  America. 
There,  beyond  the  ocean,  was  the  land  of  noble  achieve¬ 
ment,  a  glorious  free  country,  where  men  walked  erect  in 
the  full  stature  of  manhood, — the  very  realization  of 
my  youthful  dreams. 

And  now  I  am  in  America,  the  blessed  land.  The 
disillusionment,  the  disappointments,  the  vain  struggles! 
.  .  .  The  kaleidoscope  of  my  brain  unfolds  them  all 
before  my  view.  Now  I  see  myself  on  a  bench  in  Union 
Square  Park,  huddled  close  to  Fedya  and  Mikhail,  my 
roommates.  The  night  wind  sweeps  across  the  cheerless 
park,  chilling  us  to  the  bone.  I  feel  hungry  and  tired, 
fagged  out  by  the  day’s  fruitless  search  for  work.  My 
heart  sinks  within  me  as  I  glance  at  my  friends. 
“Nothing,”  each  had  morosely  reported  at  our  nightly 
meeting,  after  the  day’s  weary  tramp.  Fedya  groans  in 
uneasy  sleep,  his  hand  groping  about  his  knees.  I  pick 
up  the  newspaper  that  had  fallen  under  the  seat,  spread 
it  over  his  legs,  and  tuck  the  ends  underneath.  But  a 
sudden  blast  tears  the  paper  away,  and  whirls  it  off  into 
the  darkness.  As  I  press  Fedya’s  hat  down  on  his  head, 
I  am  struck  by  his  ghastly  look.  How  these  few  weeks 
have  changed  the  plump,  rosy-cheeked  youth !  Poor 
fellow,  no  one  wants  his  labor.  How  his  mother  would 
suffer  if  she  knew  that  her  carefully  reared  boy 
passes  the  nights  in  the  .  .  .  What  is  that  pain  I  feel? 
Some  one  is  bending  over  me,  looming  unnaturally 
large  in  the  darkness.  Half-dazed  I  see  an  arm  swing 


THE  CALL  OF  HOMESTEAD 


21 


to  and  fro,  with  short,  semicircular  backward  strokes, 
and  with  every  movement  I  feel  a  sharp  sting,  as  of  a 
lash.  Oh,  it’s  in  my  soles !  Bewildered  I  spring  to  my 
feet.  A  rough  hand  grabs  me  by  the  throat,  and  I  face 
a  policeman. 

“Are  you  thieves?”  he  bellows. 

Mikhail  replies,  sleepily:  “We  Russians.  Want 
work.” 

“Git  out  o’  here!  Off  with  you!” 

Quickly,  silently,  we  walk  away,  Fedya  and  I  in  front, 
Mikhail  limping  behind  us.  The  dimly  lighted  streets 
are  deserted,  save  for  a  hurrying  figure  here  and 
there,  closely  wrapped,  flitting  mysteriously  around  the 
corner.  Columns  of  dust  rise  from  the  gray  pavements, 
are  caught  up  by  the  wind,  rushed  to  some  distance, 
then  carried  in  a  spiral  upwards,  to  be  followed  by 
another  wave  of  choking  dust.  From  somewhere  a 
tantalizing  odor  reaches  my  nostrils.  “The  bakery  on 
Second  Street,”  Fedya  remarks.  Unconsciously  our  steps 
quicken.  Shoulders  raised,  heads  bent,  and  shivering, 
we  keep  on  to  the  lower  Bowery.  Mikhail  is  steadily 
falling  behind.  “Dammit,  I  feel  bad,”  he  says,  catching 
up  with  us,  as  we  step  into  an  open  hallway.  A  thorough 
inspection  of  our  pockets  reveals  the  possession  of 
twelve  cents,  all  around.  Mikhail  is  to  go  to  bed,  we 
decide,  handing  him  a  dime.  The  cigarettes  purchased 
for  the  remaining  two  cents  are  divided  equally,  each 
taking  a  few  puffs  of  the  “fourth”  in  the  box.  Fedya 
and  I  sleep  on  the  steps  of  the  city  hall. 


“Pitt-s-burgh !  Pitt-s-burgh !” 

The  harsh  cry  of  the  conductor  startles  me  with  the 
violence  of  a  shock.  Impatient  as  I  am  of  the  long 
journey,  the  realization  that  I  have  reached  my  destina- 


22 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


tion  comes  unexpectedly,  overwhelming  me  with  the  dread 
of  unpreparedness.  In  a  flurry  I  gather  up  my  things, 
but,  noticing  that  the  other  passengers  keep  their  places, 
I  precipitately  resume  my  seat,  fearful  lest  my  agitation 
be  noticed.  To  hide  my  confusion,  I  turn  to  the  open 
window.  Thick  clouds  of  smoke  overcast  the  sky, 
shrouding  the  morning  with  sombre  gray.  The  air  is 
heavy  with  soot  and  cinders;  the  smell  is  nauseating. 
In  the  distance,  giant  furnaces  vomit  pillars  of  fire,  the 
lurid  flashes  accentuating  a  line  of  frame  structures, 
dilapidated  and  miserable.  They  are  the  homes  of  the 
workers  who  have  created  the  industrial  glory  of  Pitts¬ 
burgh,  reared  its  millionaires,  its  Carnegies  and  Fricks. 

The  sight  fills  me  with  hatred  of  the  perverse  social 
justice  that  turns  the  needs  of  mankind  into  an  Inferno 
of  brutalizing  toil.  It  robs  man  of  his  soul,  drives  the 
sunshine  from  his  life,  degrades  him  lower  than  the 
beasts,  and  between  the  millstones  of  divine  bliss  and 
hellish  torture  grinds  flesh  and  blood  into  iron  and  steel, 
transmutes  human  lives  into  gold,  gold,  countless  gold. 

The  great,  noble  People!  But  is  it  really  great  and 
noble  to  be  slaves  and  remain  content?  No,  no!  They 
are  awakening,  awakening! 


J  i  b 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  SEAT  OF  WAR 

Contentedly  peaceful  the  Monongahela  stretches 
before  me,  its  waters  lazily  rippling  in  the  sunlight,  and 
softly  crooning  to  the  murmur  of  the  woods  on  the  hazy 
shore.  But  the  opposite  bank  presents  a  picture  of  sharp 
contrast.  Near  the  edge  of  the  river  rises  a  high  board 
fence,  topped  with  barbed  wire,  the  menacing  aspect 
heightened  by  warlike  watch-towers  and  ramparts.  The 
sinister  wall  looks  down  on  me  with  a  thousand  hollow 
eyes,  whose  evident  murderous  purpose  fully  justifies 
the  name  of  “Fort  Frick.”  Groups  of  excited  people 
crowd  the  open  spaces  between  the  river  and  the  fort, 
filling  the  air  with  the  confusion  of  many  voices.  Men 
carrying  Winchesters  are  hurrying  by,  their  faces  grimy, 
eyes  bold  yet  anxious.  From  the  mill-yard  gape  the 
black  mouths  of  cannon,  dismantled  breastworks  bar  the 
passages,  and  the  ground  is  strewn  with  burning  cinders, 
empty  shells,  oil  barrels,  broken  furnace  stacks,  and 
piles  of  steel  and  iron.  The  place  looks  the  aftermath 
of  a  sanguinary  conflict, — the  symbol  of  our  industrial 
life,  of  the  ruthless  struggle  in  which  the  stronger,  the 
sturdy  man  of  labor,  is  always  the  victim,  because  he 
acts  weakly.  But  the  charred  hulks  of  the  Pinkerton 
barges  at  the  landing-place,  and  the  blood-bespattered 
gangplank,  bear  mute  witness  that  for  once  the  battle 
went  to  the  really  strong,  to  the  victim  who  dared. 

A  group  of  workingmen  approaches  me.  Big,  stal- 

23 


24 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


wart  men,  the  power  of  conscious  strength  in  their  step 
and  bearing.  Each  of  them  carries  a  weapon :  some  Win¬ 
chesters,  others  shotguns.  In  the  hand  of  one  I  notice 
the  gleaming  barrel  of  a  navy  revolver. 

“Who  are  you?”  the  man  with  the  revolver  sternly 
asks  me. 

“A  friend,  a  visitor.” 

“Can  you  show  credentials  or  a  union  card?” 

Presently,  satisfied  as  to  my  trustworthiness,  they 
allow  me  to  proceed. 

In  one  of  the  mill-yards  I  come  upon  a  dense  crowd 
of  men  and  women  of  various  types :  the  short,  broad¬ 
faced  Slav,  elbowing  his  tall  American  fellow-striker; 
the  swarthy  Italian,  heavy-mustached,  gesticulating  and 
talking  rapidly  to  a  cluster  of  excited  countrymen.  The 
people  are  surging  about  a  raised  platform,  on  which 
stands  a  large,  heavy  man. 

I  press  forward.  “Listen,  gentlemen,  listen !”  I  hear 
the  speaker’s  voice.  “Just  a  few  words,  gentlemen! 
You  all  know  who  I  am,  don’t  you?” 

“Yes,  yes,  Sheriff !”  several  men  cry.  “Go  on !” 

“Yes,”  continues  the  speaker,  “you  all  know  who  I 
am.  Your  Sheriff,  the  Sheriff  of  Allegheny  County,  of 
the  great  Commonwealth  of  Pennsylvania.” 

“Go  ahead !”  some  one  yells,  impatiently. 

“If  you  don’t  interrupt  me,  gentlemen,  I’ll  go  ahead.” 

“S-s-sh!  Order!” 

The  speaker  advances  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 
“Men  of  Homestead!  It  is  my  sworn  duty,  as  Sheriff, 
to  preserve  the  peace.  Your  city  is  in  a  state  of  lawless¬ 
ness.  I  have  asked  the  Governor  to  send  the  militia  and 
I  hope — ” 

“No !  No !”  many  voices  protest.  “To  hell  with  you  !” 
The  tumult  drowns  the  words  of  the  Sheriff.  Shaking 
his  clenched  fist,  his  foot  stamping  the  platform,  he 


THE  SEAT  OF  WAR 


25 


shouts  at  the  crowd,  but  his  voice  is  lost  amid  the 
general  uproar. 

“O’Donnell!  O’Donnell!”  comes  from  several  sides, 
the  cry  swelling  into  a  tremendous  chorus,  “O’Donnell !” 

I  see  the  popular  leader  of  the  strike  nimbly  ascend 
the  platform.  The  assembly  becomes  hushed. 

“Brothers,”  O’Donnell  begins  in  a  flowing,  ingra¬ 
tiating  manner,  “we  have  won  a  great,  noble  victory 
over  the  Company.  We  have  driven  the  Pinkerton 
invaders  out  of  our  city — ” 

“Damn  the  murderers!” 

“Silence!  Order!” 

“You  have  won  a  big  victory,”  O’Donnell  continues, 
“a  great,  significant  victory,  such  as  was  never  before 
known  in  the  history  of  labor’s  struggle  for  better 
conditions.” 

Vociferous  cheering  interrupts  the  speaker.  “But,” 
he  continues,  “you  must  show  the  world  that  you  desire 
to  maintain  peace  and  order  along  with  your  rights. 
The  Pinkertons  were  invaders.  We  defended  our 
homes  and  drove  them  out;  rightly  so.  But  you  are 
law-abiding  citizens.  You  respect  the  law  and  the 
authority  of  the  State.  Public  opinion  will  uphold  you 
in  your  struggle  if  you  act  right.  Now  is  the  time, 
friends!”  He  raises  his  voice  in  waxing  enthusiasm, 
“Now  is  the  time!  Welcome  the  soldiers.  They  are 
not  sent  by  that  man  Frick.  They  are  the  people’s 
militia.  They  are  our  friends.  Let  us  welcome  them 
as  friends!” 

Applause,  mixed  with  cries  of  impatient  disapproval, 
greets  the  exhortation.  Arms  are  raised  in  angry  argu¬ 
ment,  and  the  crowd  sways  back  and  forth,  breaking 
into  several  excited  groups.  Presently  a  tall,  dark 
man  appears  on  the  platform.  His  stentorian  voice 


26  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


gradually  draws  the  assembly  closer  to  the  front. 
Slowly  the  tumult  subsides. 

“Don’t  you  believe  it,  men!”  The  speaker  shakes 
his  finger  at  the  audience,  as  if  to  emphasize  his 
warning.  “Don’t  you  believe  that  the  soldiers  are 
coming  as  friends.  Soft  words  these,  Mr.  O’Donnell. 
They’ll  cost  us  dear.  Remember  what  I  say,  brothers. 
The  soldiers  are  no  friends  of  ours.  I  know  what  I  am 
talking  about.  They  are  coming  here  because  that 
damned  murderer  Frick  wants  them.” 

“Hear!  Hear!” 

“Yes!”  the  tall  man  continues,  his  voice  quivering 
with  emotion,  “I  can  tell  you  just  how  it  is.  The 
scoundrel  of  a  Sheriff  there  asked  the  Governor  for 
troops,  and  that  damned  Frick  paid  the  Sheriff  to  do 
it,  I  say!” 

“No!  Yes!  No!”  the  clamor  is  renewed,  but  I  can 
hear  the  speaker’s  voice  rising  above  the  din:  “Yes, 
bribed  him.  You  all  know  this  cowardly  Sheriff.  Don’t 
you  let  the  soldiers  come,  I  tell  you.  First  they'  11  come; 
then  the  blacklegs.  You  want  ’em?” 

“No!  No!”  roars  the  crowd. 

“Well,  if  you  don’t  want  the  damned  scabs,  keep 
out  the  soldiers,  you  understand?  If* you  don’t,  they’ll 
drive  you  out  from  the  homes  you  have  paid  for  with 
your  blood.  You  and  your  wives  and  children  they’ll 
drive  out,  and  out  you  will  go  from  these” — the  speaker 
points  in  the  direction  of  the  mills — “that’s  what  they’ll 
do,  if  you  don’t  look  out.  We  have  sweated  and  bled 
in  these  mills,  our  brothers  have  been  killed  and  maimed 
there,  we  have  made  the  damned  Company  rich,  and 
now  they  send  the  soldiers  here  to  shoot  us  down  like 
the  Pinkerton  thugs  have  tried  to.  And  you  want  to 
welcome  the  murderers,  do  you?  Keep  them  out,  I 
tell  you !” 


THE  SEAT  OF  WAR 


27 


Amid  shouts  and  yells  the  speaker  leaves  the 
platform. 

“McLuckie !  ‘Honest’  McLuckie !”  a  voice  is  heard  on 
the  fringe  of  the  crowd,  and  as  one  man  the  assembly 
takes  up  the  cry,  “  ‘Honest’  McLuckie !” 

I  am  eager  to  see  the  popular  Burgess  of  Homestead, 
himself  a  poorly  paid  employee  of  the  Carnegie  Com¬ 
pany.  A  large-boned,  good-natured-looking  working¬ 
man  elbows  his  way  to  the  front,  the  men  readily  making 
way  for  him  with  nods  and  pleasant  smiles. 

“I  haven’t  prepared  any  speech,”  the  Burgess  begins 
haltingly,  “but  I  want  to  say,  I  don’t  see  how  you  are 
going  to  fight  the  soldiers.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth 
in  what  the  brother  before  me  said;  but  if  you  stop  to 
think  on  it,  he  forgot  to  tell  you  just  one  little  thing. 
The  how?  How  is  he  going  to  do  it,  to  keep  the  soldiers 
out?  That’s  what  I’d  like  to  know.  I’m  afraid  it’s  bad 
to  let  them  in.  The  blacklegs  might  be  hiding  in  the 
rear.  But  then  again,  it’s  bad  not  to  let  the  soldiers  in. 
You  can’t  stand  up  against  ’em :  they  are  not  Pinkertons. 
And  we  can’t  fight  the  Government  of  Pennsylvania. 
Perhaps  the  Governor  won’t  send  the  militia.  But  if 
he  does,  I  reckon  the  best  way  for  us  will  be  to  make 
friends  with  them.  Guess  it’s  the  only  thing  we  can  do. 
That’s  all  I  have  to  say.” 

The  assembly  breaks  up,  dejected,  dispirited. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PITTSBURGH 

I 

Like  a  gigantic  hive  the  twin  cities  jut  out  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio,  heavily  breathing  the  spirit  of 
feverish  activity,  and  permeating  the  atmosphere  with 
the  rage  of  life.  Ceaselessly  flow  the  streams  of  human 
ants,  meeting  and  diverging,  their  paths  crossing  and 
recrossing,  leaving  in  their  trail  a  thousand  winding 
passages,  mounds  of  structure,  peaked  and  domed. 
Their  huge  shadows  overcast  the  yellow  thread  of 
gleaming  river  that  curves  and  twists  its  painful  way, 
now  hugging  the  shore,  now  hiding  in  affright,  and 
again  timidly  stretching  its  arms  toward  the  wrathful 
monsters  that  belch  fire  and  smoke  into  the  midst  of 
the  giant  hive.  And  over  the  whole  is  spread  the  gloom 
of  thick  fog,  oppressive  and  dispiriting — the  symbol 
of  our  existence,  with  all  its  darkness  and  cold. 

This  is  Pittsburgh,  the  heart  of  American  indus¬ 
trialism,  whose  spirit  moulds  the  life  of  the  great  Nation. 
The  spirit  of  Pittsburgh,  the  Iron  City!  Cold  as  steel, 
hard  as  iron,  its  products.  These  are  the  keynote  of  the 
great  Republic,  dominating  all  other  chords,  sacrificing 
harmony  to  noise,  beauty  to  bulk.  Its  torch  of  liberty  is 
a  furnace  fire,  consuming,  destroying,  devastating :  a 
country-wide  furnace,  in  which  the  bones  and  marrow 
of  the  producers,  their  limbs  and  bodies,  their  health  and 

28 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PITTSBURGH 


29 


blood,  are  cast  into  Bessemer  steel,  rolled  into  armor 
plate,  and  converted  into  engines  of  murder  to  be  con¬ 
secrated  to  Mammon  by  his  high  priests,  the  Carnegies, 
the  Fricks. 

The  spirit  of  the  Iron  City  characterizes  the  nego¬ 
tiations  carried  on  between  the  Carnegie  Company  and 
the  Homestead  men.  Henry  Clay  Frick,  in  absolute 
control  of  the  firm,  incarnates  the  spirit  of  the  furnace, 
is  the  living  emblem  of  his  trade.  The  olive  branch 
held  out  by  the  workers  after  their  victory  over  the 
Pinkertons  has  been  refused.  The  ultimatum  issued  by 
Frick  is  the  last  word  of  Caesar:  the  union  of  the  steel¬ 
workers  is  to  be  crushed,  completely  and  absolutely,  even 
at  the  cost  of  shedding  the  blood  of  the  last  man  in 
Homestead;  the  Company  will  deal  only  with  individual 
workers,  who  must  accept  the  terms  offered,  without 
question  or  discussion;  he,  Frick,  will  operate  the  mills 
with  non-union  labor,  even  if  it  should  require  the 
combined  military  power  of  the  State  and  the  Union  to 
carry  the  plan  into  execution.  Millmen  disobeying  the 
order  to  return  to  work  under  the  new  schedule  of 
reduced  wages  are  to  be  discharged  forthwith,  and 
evicted  from  the  Company  houses. 

II 

In  an  obscure  alley,  in  the  town  of  Homestead, 
there  stands  a  one-story  frame  house,  looking  old  and 
forlorn.  It  is  occupied  by  the  widow  Johnson  and  her 
four  small  children.  Six  months  ago,  the  breaking  of  a 
crane  buried  her  husband  under  two  hundred  tons  of 
metal.  When  the  body  was  carried  into  the  house,  the 
distracted  woman  refused  to  recognize  in  the  mangled 
remains  her  big,  strong  “Jack,”  For  weeks  the  neigh- 


30 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


borhood  resounded  with  her  frenzied  cry,  “My  husband ! 
Where’s  my  husband?”  But  the  loving  care  of  kind- 
hearted  neighbors  has  now  somewhat  restored  the  poor 
woman’s  reason.  Accompanied  by  her  four  little 
orphans,  she  recently  gained  admittance  to  Mr.  Frick. 
On  her  knees  she  implored  him  not  to  drive  her  out 
of  her  home.  Her  poor  husband  was  dead,  she  pleaded ; 
she  could  not  pay  off  the  mortgage;  the  children  were 
too  young  to  work;  she  herself  was  hardly  able  to 
walk.  Frick  was  very  kind,  she  thought;  he  had  prom¬ 
ised  to  see  what  could  be  done.  She  would  not  listen 
to  the  neighbors  urging  her  to  sue  the  Company  for 
damages.  “The  crane  was  rotten,”  her  husband’s 
friends  informed  her;  “the  government  inspector  had 
condemned  it.”  But  Mr.  Frick  was  kind,  and  surely 
he  knew  best  about  the  crane.  Did  he  not  say  it  was 
her  poor  husband’s  own  carelessness? 

She  feels  very  thankful  to  good  Mr.  Frick  for 
extending  the  mortgage.  She  had  lived  in  such  mortal 
dread  lest  her  own  little  home,  where  dear  John  had 
been  such  a  kind  husband  to  her,  be  taken  away,  and 
her  children  driven  into  the  street.  She  must  never 
forget  to  ask  the  Lord’s  blessing  upon  the  good  Mr. 
Frick.  Every  day  she  repeats  to  her  neighbors  the 
story  of  her  visit  to  the  great  man;  how  kindly  he 
received  her,  how  simply  he  talked  with  her.  “Just  like 
us  folks,”  the  widow  says. 

She  is  now  telling  the  wonderful  story  to  neighbor 
Mary,  the  hunchback,  who,  with  undiminished  interest, 
hears  the  recital  for  the  twentieth  time.  It  reflects  such 
importance  to  know  some  one  that  had  come  in  intimate 
contact  with  the  Iron  King ;  why,  into  his  very  presence ! 
and  even  talked  to  the  great  magnate ! 

“  ‘Dear  Mr.  Frick,’  says  I,”  the  widow  is  narrating, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PITTSBURGH 


31 


“  ‘dear  Mr.  Frick,’  I  says,  ‘look  at  my  poor  little 
angels — ’  ” 

A  knock  on  the  door  interrupts  her.  “Must  be  one- 
eyed  Kate,”  the  widow  observes.  “Come  in !  Come  in !” 
she  calls  out,  cheerfully.  “Poor  Kate!”  she  remarks 
with  a  sigh.  “Her  man’s  got  the  consumption.  Won’t 
last  long,  I  fear.” 

A  tall,  rough-looking  man  stands  in  the  doorway. 
Behind  him  appear  two  others.  Frightened,  the  widow 
rises  from  the  chair.  One  of  the  children  begins  to  cry, 
and  runs  to  hide  behind  his  mother. 

“Beg  pard’n,  ma’am,”  the  tall  man  says.  “Have  no 
fear.  We  are  Deputy  Sheriffs.  Read  this.”  He  pro¬ 
duces  an  official-looking  paper.  “Ordered  to  dispossess 
you.  Very  sorry,  ma’am,  but  get  ready.  Quick,  got  a 
dozen  more  of — ” 

There  is  a  piercing  scream.  The  Deputy  Sheriff 
catches  the  limp  body  of  the  widow  in  his  arms. 

Ill 

East  End,  the  fashionable  residence  quarter  of  Pitts¬ 
burgh,  lies  basking  in  the  afternoon  sun.  The  broad 
avenue  looks  cool  and  inviting:  the  stately  trees  touch 
their  shadows  across  the  carriage  road,  gently  nodding 
their  heads  in  mutual  approval.  A  steady  procession  of 
equipages  fills  the  avenue,  the  richly  caparisoned  horses 
and  uniformed  flunkies  lending  color  and  life  to  the 
scene.  A  cavalcade  is  passing  me.  The  laughter  of  the 
ladies  sounds  joyous  and  care-free.  Their  happiness 
irritates  me.  I  am  thinking  of  Homestead.  In  mind 
I  see  the  sombre  fence,  the  fortifications  and  cannon; 
the  piteous  figure  of  the  widow  rises  before  me,  the 
little  children  weeping,  and  again  I  hear  the  anguished 
cry  of  a  broken  heart,  a  shattered  brain.  .  .  . 


32  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


And  here  all  is  joy  and  laughter.  The  gentlemen 
seem  pleased;  the  ladies  are  happy.  Why  should  they 
concern  themselves  with  misery  and  want?  The 
common  folk  are  fit  only  to  be  their  slaves,  to  feed  and 
clothe  them,  build  these  beautiful  palaces,  and  be  content 
with  the  charitable  crust.  “Take  what  I  give  you,” 
Frick  commands.  Why,  here  is  his  house !  A  luxurious 
place,  with  large  garden,  barns,  and  stable.  That  stable 
there, — it  is  more  cheerful  and  habitable  than  the  widow’s 
home.  Ah,  life  could  be  made  livable,  beautiful!  Why 
should  it  not  be?  Why  so  much  misery  and  strife? 
Sunshine,  flowers,  beautiful  things  are  all  around  me. 
That  is  life !  Joy  and  peace.  .  .  .  No !  There  can  be  no 
peace  with  such  as  Frick  and  these  parasites  in  carriages 
riding  on  our  backs,  and  sucking  the  blood  of  the  work¬ 
ers.  Fricks,  vampires,  all  of  them — I  almost  shout  aloud 
— they  are  all  one  class.  All  in  a  cabal  against  my 
class,  the  toilers,  the  producers.  An  impersonal  con¬ 
spiracy,  perhaps;  but  a  conspiracy  nevertheless.  And 
the  fine  ladies  on  horseback  smile  and  laugh.  What  is 
the  misery  of  the  People  to  them?.  Probably  they  are 
laughing  at  me.  Laugh!  Laugh!  You  despise  me.  I  am 
of  the  People,  but  you  belong  to  the  Fricks.  Well,  it 
may  soon  be  our  turn  to  laugh.  .  .  . 

Returning  to  Pittsburgh  in  the  evening,  I  learn  that 
the  conferences  between  the  Carnegie  Company  and  the 
Advisory  Committee  of  the  strikers  have  terminated  in 
the  final  refusal  of  Frick  to  consider  the  demands  of 
the  millmen.  The  last  hope  is  gone!  The  master  is 
determined  to  crush  his  rebellious  slaves. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  ATTENTAT 


The  door  of  Frick’s  private  office,  to  the  left  of  the 
reception-room,  swings  open  as  the  colored  attendant 
emerges,  and  I  catch  a  flitting  glimpse  of  a  black- 
bearded,  well-knit  figure  at  a  table  in  the  back  of  the 
room. 

“Mistah  Frick  is  engaged.  He  can’t  see  you  now, 
sah,”  the  negro  says,  handing  back  my  card. 

I  take  the  pasteboard,  return  it  to  my  case,  and  walk 
slowly  out  of  the  reception-room.  But  quickly  retracing 
my  steps,  I  pass  through  the  gate  separating  the  clerks 
from  the  visitors,  and,  brushing  the  astounded  attendant 
aside,  I  step  into  the  office  on  the  left,  and  find  myself 
facing  Frick. 

For  an  instant  the  sunlight,  streaming  through  the 
windows,  dazzles  me.  I  discern  two  men  at  the  further 
end  of  the  long  table. 

“Fr — ,”  I  begin.  The  look  of  terror  on  his  face 
strikes  me  speechless.  It  is  the  dread  of  the  conscious 
presence  of  death.  “He  understands,”  it  flashes  through 
my  mind.  With  a  quick  motion  I  draw  the  revolver. 
As  I  raise  the  weapon,  I  see  Frick  clutch  with  both 
hands  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  attempt  to  rise.  I  aim 
at  his  head.  “Perhaps  he  wears  armor,”  I  reflect.  With 
a  look  of  horror  he  quickly  averts  his  face,  as  I  pull 
the  trigger.  There  is  a  flash,  and  the  high-ceilinged 

33 


34  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


room  reverberates  as  with  the  booming  of  cannon.  I 
hear  a  sharp,  piercing  cry,  and  see  Frick  on  his  knees, 
his  head  against  the  arm  of  the  chair.  I  feel  calm  and 
possessed,  intent  upon  every  movement  of  the  man.  He 
is  lying  head  and  shoulders  under  the  large  armchair, 
without  sound  or  motion.  “Dead?”  I  wonder.  I  must 
make  sure.  About  twenty-five  feet  separate  us.  I  take 
a  few  steps  toward  him,  when  suddenly  the  other  man, 
whose  presence  I  had  quite  forgotten,  leaps  upon  me. 
I  struggle  to  loosen  his  hold.  He  looks  slender  and 
small.  I  would  not  hurt  him:  I  have  no  business  with 
him.  Suddenly  I  hear  the  cry,  “Murder!  Help!”  My 
heart  stands  still  as  I  realize  that  it  is  Frick  shouting. 
“Alive?”  I  wonder.  I  hurl  the  stranger  aside  and  fire 
at  the  crawling  figure  of  Frick.  The  man  struck  my 
hand, — I  have  missed!  He  grapples  with  me,  and  we 
wrestle  across  the  room.  I  try  to  throw  him,  but  spying 
an  opening  between  his  arm  and  body,  I  thrust  the 
revolver  against  his  side  and  aim  at  Frick,  cowering 
behind  the  chair.  I  pull  the  trigger.  There  is  a  click — 
but  no  explosion!  By  the  throat  I  catch  the  stranger, 
still  clinging  to  me,  when  suddenly  something  heavy 
strikes  me  on  the  back  of  the  head.  Sharp  pains  shoot 
through  my  eyes.  I  sink  to  the  floor,  vaguely  conscious 
of  the  weapon  slipping  from  my  hands. 

“Where  is  the  hammer?  Hit  him,  carpenter!” 
Confused  voices  ring  in  my  ears.  Painfully  I  strive  to 
rise.  The  weight  of  many  bodies  is  pressing  on  me. 
Now — it’s  Frick’s  voice!  Not  dead?  ...  I  crawl  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound,  dragging  the  struggling  men 
with  me.  I  must  get  the  dagger  from  my  pocket — I 
have  it!  Repeatedly  I  strike  with  it  at  the  legs  of  the 
man  near  the  window.  I  hear  Frick  cry  out  in  pain — 
there  is  much  shouting  and  stamping — my  arms  are 
pulled  and  twisted,  and  I  am  lifted  bodily  from  the  floor. 


THE  ATTENTAT 


35 


Police,  clerks,  workmen  in  overalls,  surround  me. 
An  officer  pulls  my  head  back  by  the  hair,  and  my 
eyes  meet  Frick’s.  He  stands  in  front  of  me,  supported 
by  several  men.  His  face  is  ashen  gray;  the  black 
beard  is  streaked  with  red,  and  blood  is  oozing  from 
his  neck.  For  an  instant  a  strange  feeling,  as  of 
shame,  comes  over  me ;  but  the  next  moment  I  am  filled 
with  anger  at  the  sentiment,  so  unworthy  of  a  revolu¬ 
tionist.  With  defiant  hatred  I  look  him  full  in  the  face. 

“Mr.  Frick,  do  you  identify  this  man  as  your 
assailant  ?” 

Frick  nods  weakly. 

The  street  is  lined  with  a  dense,  excited  crowd.  A 
young  man  in  civilian  dress,  who  is  accompanying  the 
police,  inquires,  not  unkindly: 

“Are  you  hurt?  You’re  bleeding.” 

I  pass  my  hand  over  my  face.  I  feel  no  pain,  but 
there  is  a  peculiar  sensation  about  my  eyes. 

“I’ve  lost  my  glasses,”  I  remark,  involuntarily. 

“You’ll  be  damn  lucky  if' you  don’t  lose  your  head,” 
an  officer  retorts. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  THIRD  DEGREE 

I 

The  clanking  of  the  keys  grows  fainter  and  fainter; 
the  sound  of  footsteps  dies  away.  The  officers  are  gone. 
It  is  a  relief  to  be  alone.  Their  insolent  looks  and 
stupid  questions,  insinuations  and  threats, — how  dis¬ 
gusting  and  tiresome  it  all  is !  A  sense  of  complete 
indifference  possesses  me.  I  stretch  myself  out  on  the 
wooden  bench,  running  along  the  wall  of  the  cell,  and 
at  once  fall  asleep. 

I  awake  feeling  tired  and  chilly.  All  is  quiet  and 
dark  around  me.  Is  it  night?  My  hand  gropes  blindly, 
hesitantly.  Something  wet  and  clammy  touches  my 
cheek.  In  sudden  affright  I  draw  back.  The  cell  is 
damp  and  musty;  the  foul  air  nauseates  me.  Slowly 
my  foot  feels  the  floor,  drawing  my  body  forward,  all 
my  senses  on  the  alert.  I  clutch  the  bars.  The  feel  of 
iron  is  reassuring.  Pressed  close  to  the  door,  my 
mouth  in  the  narrow  opening,  I  draw  quick,  short 
breaths.  I  am  hot,  perspiring.  My  throat  is  dry  to 
cracking;  I  cannot  swallow.  “Water!  I  want  water !” 
The  voice  frightens  me.  Was  it  I  that  spoke?  The 
sound  rolls  up;  it  rises  from  gallery  to  gallery,  and 
strikes  the  opposite  corner  under  the  roof ;  now  it  crawls 
underneath,  knocks  in  the  distant  hollows,  and  abruptly 
ceases. 


36 


THE  THIRD  DEGREE 


37 


“Holloa,  there!  Whatcher  in  for?” 

The  voice  seems  to  issue  at  once  from  all  sides  of 
the  corridor.  But  the  sound  relieves  me.  Now  the  air 
feels  better;  it  is  not  so  difficult  to  breathe.  I  begin  to 
distinguish  the  outline  of  a  row  of  cells  opposite  mine. 
There  are  dark  forms  at  the  doors.  The  men  within 
look  like  beasts  restlessly  pacing  their  cages. 

“Whatcher  in  for?”  It  comes  from  somewhere 
alongside.  “Can’t  talk,  eh?  ’Sorderly,  guess.” 

What  am  I  in  for?  Oh,  yes!  It’s  Frick.  Well,  I 
shall  not  stay  here  long,  anyhow.  They  will  soon  take 
me  out — they  will  lean  me  against  a  wall — a  slimy 
wall  like  this,  perhaps.  They  will  bandage  my  eyes,  and 
the  soldiers  there.  .  .  .  No:  they  are  going  to  hang  me. 
Well,  I  shall  be  glad  when  they  take  me  out  of  here. 
I  am  so  dry.  I’m  suffocating.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  upright  irons  of  the  barred  door  grow 
faint,  and  melt  into  a  single  line;  it  adjusts  itself  cross¬ 
wise  between  the  upper  and  side  sills.  It  resembles 
a  scaffold,  and  there  is  a  man  sinking  the  beam  into 
the  ground.  He  leans  it  carefully  against  the  wall,  and 
picks  up  a  spade.  Now  he  stands  with  one  foot  in  the 
hole.  It  is  the  carpenter!  He  hit  me  on  the  head. 
From  behind,  too,  the  coward.  If  he  only  knew  what 
he  had  done.  He  is  one  of  the  People:  we  must  go  to 
them,  enlighten  them.  I  wish  he’d  look  up.  He  doesn’t 
know  his  real  friends.  He  looks  like  a  Russian  peasant, 
with  his  broad  back.  What  hairy  arms  he  has!  If  he 
would  only  look  up.  .  .  .  Now  he  sinks  the  beam  into  the 
ground;  he  is  stamping  down  the  earth.  I  will  catch 
his  eye  as  he  turns  around.  Ah,  he  didn’t  look !  He  has 
his  eyes  always  on  the  ground.  Just  like  the  muzhik. 
Now  he  is  taking  a  few  steps  backward,  critically  exam¬ 
ining  his  work.  He  seems  pleased.  How  peculiar  the 


38  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


cross-piece  looks.  •  The  horizontal  beam  seems  too  long ; 
out  of  proportion.  I  hope  it  won’t  break.  I  remember 
the  feeling  I  had  when  my  brother  once  showed  me  the 
picture  of  a  man  dangling  from  the  branch  of  a  tree. 
Underneath  was  inscribed,  The  Execution  of  Stenka 
Razin.  “Didn’t  the  branch  break?”  I  asked.  “No, 
Sasha,”  mother  replied,  “Stenka — well,  he  weighed 
nothing”;  and  I  wondered  at  the  peculiar  look  she 
exchanged  with  Maxim.  But  mother  smiled  sadly 
at  me,  and  wouldn’t  explain.  Then  she  turned  to  my 
brother :  “Maxim,  you  must  not  bring  Sashenka 
such  pictures.  He  is  too  young.”  “Not  too  young, 
mamotchka,  to  learn  that  Stenka  was  a  great  man.” 
“What!  You  young  fool,”  father  bristled  with  anger, 
“he  was  a  murderer,  a  common  rioter.”  But  mother 
and  Maxim  bravely  defended  Stenka,  and  I  was  deeply 
incensed  at  father,  who  despotically  terminated  the  dis¬ 
cussion.  “Not  another  word,  now !  I  won’t  hear  any 
more  of  that  peasant  criminal.”  The  peculiar  diver¬ 
gence  of  opinion  perplexed  me.  Anybody  could  tell  the 
difference  between  a  murderer  and  a  worthy  man.  Why 
couldn’t  they  agree?  He  must  have  been  a  good  man,  I 
finally  decided.  Mother  wouldn’t  cry  over  a  hanged 
murderer:  I  saw  her  stealthily  wipe  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  that  picture.  Yes,  Stenka  Razin  was  surely  a 
noble  man.  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  over  the  unspeakable 
injustice,  wondering  how  I  could  ever  forgive  “them” 
the  killing  of  the  good  Stenka,  and  why  the  weak- 
looking  branch  did  not  break  with  his  weight.  Why 
didn’t  it  break?  .  .  .  The  scaffold  they  will  prepare  for 
me  might  break  with  my  weight.  They’ll  hang  me  like 
Stenka,  and  perhaps  a  little  boy  will  some  day  see  the 
picture — and  they  will  call  me  murderer — and  only  a 
few  will  know  the  truth — and  the  picture  will  show  me 
hanging  from  ...  No,  they  shall  not  hang  me! 


THE  THIRD  DEGREE 


39 


My  hand  steals  to  the  lapel  of  my  coat,  and  a  deep 
sense  of  gratification  comes  over  me,  as  I  feel  the  nitro¬ 
glycerine  cartridge  secure  in  the  lining.  I  smile  at  the 
imaginary  carpenter.  Useless  preparations !  I  have, 
myself,  prepared  for  the  event.  No,  they  won’t  hang  me. 
My  hand  caresses  the  long,  narrow  tube.  Go  ahead! 
Make  your  gallows.  Why,  the  man  is  putting  on  his  coat. 
Is  he  done  already?  Now  he  is  turning  around.  He  is 
looking  straight  at  me.  Why,  it’s  Frick!  Alive?  .  .  . 

My  brain  is  on  fire.  I  press  my  head  against  the 
bars,  and  groan  heavily.  Alive?  Haye  I  failed? 
Failed?  .  .  . 


II 

Heavy  footsteps  approach  nearer;  the  clanking  of 
the  keys  grows  more  distinct.  I  must  compose  myself. 
Those  mocking,  unfriendly  eyes  shall  not  witness  my 
agony.  They  could  allay  this  terrible  uncertainty,  but  I 
must  seem  indifferent. 

Would  I  “take  lunch  with  the  Chief”?  I  decline, 
requesting  a  glass  of  water.  Certainly;  but  the  Chief 
wishes  to  see  me  first.  Flanked  on  each  side  by  a 
policeman,  I  pass  through  winding  corridors,  and  finally 
ascend  to  the  private  office  of  the  Chief.  My  mind  is 
busy  with  thoughts  of  escape,  as  I  carefully  note  the 
surroundings.  I  am  in  a  large,  well-furnished  room, 
the  heavily  curtained  windows  built  unusually  high 
above  the  floor.  A  brass  railing  separates  me  from  the 
roll-top  desk,  at  which  a  middle-aged  man,  of  distinct 
Irish  type,  is  engaged  with  some  papers. 

“Good  morning,”  he  greets  me,  pleasantly.  “Have  a 
seat,”  pointing  to  a  chair  inside  the  railing.  “I  under¬ 
stand  you  asked  for  some  water?” 

“Yes.” 


40 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Just  a  few  questions  first.  Nothing  important. 
Your  pedigree,  you  know.  Mere  matter  of  form. 
Answer  frankly,  and  you  shall  have  everything  you 
want.” 

His  manner  is  courteous,  almost  ingratiating. 

“Now  tell  me,  Mr.  Berkman,  what  is  your  name? 
Your  real  name,  I  mean.” 

“That’s  my  real  name.” 

“You  don’t  mean  you  gave  your  real  name  on  the 
card  you  sent  in  to  Mr.  Frick?” 

“I  gave  my  real  name.” 

“And  you  are  an  agent  of  a  New  York  employment 
firm  ?” 

“No.” 

“That  was  on  your  card.” 

“I  wrote  it  to  gain  access  to  Frick.” 

“And  you  gave  the  name  ‘Alexander  Berkman’  to 
gain  access?” 

“No.  I  gave  my  real  name.  Whatever  might 
happen,  I  did  not  want  anyone  else  to  be  blamed.” 

“Are  you  a  Homestead  striker?” 

“No.” 

“Why  did  you  attack  Mr.  Frick?” 

“He  is  an  enemy  of  the  People.” 

“You  got  a  personal  grievance  against  him?” 

“No.  I  consider  him  an  enemy  of  the  People.” 
“Where  do  you  come  from?” 

“From  the  station  cell.” 

“Come,  now,  you  may  speak  frankly,  Mr.  Berkman. 
I  am  your  friend.  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  nice,  com¬ 
fortable  cell.  The  other — ” 

“Worse  than  a  Russian  prison,”  I  interrupt,  angrily. 


THE  THIRD  DEGREE 


4* 


"How  long  did  you  serve  there?” 

"Where?” 

"In  the  prison  in  Russia.” 

"I  was  never  before  inside  a  cell.” 

"Come,  now,  Mr.  Berkman,  tell  the  truth.” 

He  motions  to  the  officer  behind  my  chair.  The 
window  curtains  are  drawn  aside,  exposing  me  to  the 
full  glare  of  the  sunlight.  My  gaze  wanders  to  the 
clock  on  the  wall.  The  hour-hand  points  to  V.  The 
calendar  on  the  desk  reads,  July — 23 — Saturday.  Only 
three  hours  since  my  arrest?  It  seemed  so  long  in  the 
cell.  .  .  . 

"You  can  be  quite  frank  with  me,”  the  inquisitor  is 
saying.  "I  know  a  good  deal  more  about  you  than  you 
think.  We’ve  got  your  friend  Rak-metov.” 

With  difficulty  I  suppress  a  smile  at  the  stupidity  of 
the  intended  trap.  In  the  register  of  the  hotel  where 
I  passed  the  first  night  in  Pittsburgh,  I  signed  "Rakh- 
metov,”  the  name  of  the  hero  in  Chernishevsky’s  famous 
novel. 

"Yes,  we’ve  got  your  friend,  and  we  know  all  about 
you.” 

"Then  why  do  you  ask  me?” 

"Don’t  you  try  to  be  smart  now.  Answer  my  ques¬ 
tions,  d’ye  hear?” 

His  manner  has  suddenly  changed.  His  tone  is 
threatening. 

"Now  answer  me.  Where  do  you  live?” 

"Give  me  some  water.  I  am  too  dry  to  talk.” 

"Certainly,  certainly,”  he  replies,  coaxingly.  "You 
shall  have  a  drink.  Do  you  prefer  whiskey  or  beer?” 

"I  never  drink  whiskey,  and  beer  very  seldom. 
I  want  water.” 


42 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Well,  you’ll  get  it  as  soon  as  we  get  through.  Don’t 
let  us  waste  time,  then.  Who  are  your  friends?” 

“Give  me  a  drink.” 

“The  quicker  we  get  through,  the  sooner  you’ll  get 
a  drink.  I  am  having  a  nice  cell  fixed  up  for  you,  too. 
I  want  to  be  your  friend,  Mr.  Berkman.  Treat  me 
right,  and  I’ll  take  care  of  you.  Now,  tell  me,  where 
did  you  stop  in  Pittsburgh?” 

“I  have  nothing  to  tell  you.” 

“Answer  me,  or  I’ll — ” 

His  face  is  purple  with  rage.  With  clenched  fist 
he  leaps  from  his  seat;  but,  suddenly  controlling  him¬ 
self,  he  says,  with  a  reassuring  smile: 

“Now  be  sensible,  Mr.  Berkman.  You  seem  to  be 
an  intelligent  man.  Why  don’t  you  talk  sensibly?” 

“What  do  you  want  to  know?” 

“Who  went  with  you  to  Mr.  Frick’s  office?” 

Impatient  of  the  comedy,  I  rise  with  the  words : 

“I  came  to  Pittsburgh  alone.  I  stopped  at  the  Mer¬ 
chants’  Hotel,  opposite  the  B.  and  O.  depot.  I  signed 
the  name  Rakhmetov  in  the  register  there.  It’s  a 
fictitious  name.  My  real  name  is  Alexander  Berkman. 
I  went  to  Frick’s  office  alone.  I  had  no  helpers.  That’s 
all  I  have  to  tell  you.” 

“Very  good,  very  good.  Take  your  seat,  Mr.  Berk¬ 
man.  We’re  not  in  any  hurry.  Take  your  seat.  You 
may  as  well  stay  here  as  in  the  cell;  it’s  pleasanter. 
But  I  am  going  to  have  another  cell  fixed  up  for  you. 
Just  tell  me,  where  do  you  stay  in  New  York?” 

“I  have  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell.” 

“Now,  don’t  be  stubborn.  Who  are  your  friends?” 

“I  won’t  say  another  word.” 


THE  THIRD  DEGREE 


43 


“Damn  you,  you’ll  think  better  of  it.  Officers,  take 
him  back.  Same  cell.” 

Every  morning  and  evening,  during  three  days,  the 
scene  is  repeated  by  new  inquisitors.  They  coax  and 
threaten,  they  smile  and  rage  in  turn.  I  remain  indiffer¬ 
ent.  But  water  is  refused  me,  my  thirst  aggravated 
by  the  salty  food  they  have  given  me.  It  consumes  me, 
it  tortures  and  burns  my  vitals  through  the  sleepless 
nights  passed  on  the  hard  wooden  bench.  The  foul 
air  of  the  cell  is  stifling.  The  silence  of  the  grave 
torments  me ;  my  soul  is  in  an  agony  of  uncertainty. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  JAIL 

I 

The  days  ring  with  noisy  clamor.  There  is  constant 
going  and  coming.  The  clatter  of  levers,  the  slamming 
of  iron  doors,  continually  reverberates  through  the 
corridors.  The  dull  thud  of  a  footfall  in  the  cell  above 
hammers  on  my  head  with  maddening  regularity.  In 
my  ears  is  the  yelling  and  shouting  of  coarse  voices. 

“Cell  num-ber  ee-e-lev-ven !  To  court!  Right 
a-way !” 

A  prisoner  hurriedly  passes  my  door.  His  step  is 

» 

nervous,  in  his  look  expectant  fear. 

“Hurry,  there!  To  court!” 

“Good  luck,  Jimmie.” 

The  man  flushes  and  averts  his  face,  as  he  passes 
a  group  of  visitors  clustered  about  an  overseer. 

“Who  is  that,  Officer?”  One  of  the  ladies  advances, 
lorgnette  in  hand,  and  stares  boldly  at  the  prisoner. 
Suddenly  she  shrinks  back.  A  man  is  being  led  past 
by  the  guards.  His  face  is  bleeding  from  a  deep  gash, 
his  head  swathed  in  bandages.  The  officers  thrust 
him  violently  into  a  cell.  He  falls  heavily  against 
the  bed.  “Oh,  don’t!  For  Jesus’  sake,  don’t!”  The 
shutting  of  the  heavy  door  drowns  his  cries. 

The  visitors  crowd  about  the  cell. 

“What  did  he  do?  He  can’t  come  out  now,  Officer?” 

44 


THE  JAIL 


45 


“No,  ma’am.  He’s  safe.” 

The  lady’s  laugh  rings  clear  and  silvery.  She 
steps  closer  to  the  bars,  eagerly  peering  into  the 
darkness.  A  smile  of  exciting  security  plays  about 
her  mouth. 

“What  has  he  done,  Officer?” 

“Stole  some  clothes,  ma’am.” 

Disdainful  disappointment  is  on  the  lady’s  face. 
“Where  is  that  man  who — er — we  read  in  the  papers 
yesterday?  You  know — the  newspaper  artist  who 
killed — er — that  girl  in  such  a  brutal  manner.” 

“Oh,  Jack  Tarlin.  Murderers’  Row,  this  way, 
ladies.” 

II 

The  sun  is  slowly  nearing  the  blue  patch  of  sky, 
visible  from  my  cell  in  the  western  wing  of  the  jail. 
I  stand  close  to  the  bars  to  catch  the  cheering  rays. 
They  glide  across  my  face  with  tender,  soft  caress, 
and  I  feel  something  melt  within  me.  Closer  I  press 
to  the  door.  I  long  for  the  precious  embrace  to  surround 
me,  to  envelop  me,  to  pour  its  soft  balm  into  my  aching 
soul.  The  last  rays  are  fading  away,  and  something 
out  of  my  heart  is  departing  with  them.  .  .  .  But  the 
lengthening  shadows  on  the  gray  flagstones  spread 
quiet.  Gradually  the  clamor  ceases,  the  sounds  die  out. 
I  hear  the  creaking  of  rusty  hinges,  there  is  the  click 
of  a  lock,  and  all  is  hushed  and  dark. 

•  ••••••• 

The  silence  grows  gloomy,  oppressive.  It  fills  me 
with  mysterious  awe.  It  lives.  It  pulsates  with  slow, 
measured  breathing,  as  of  some  monster.  It  rises 
and  falls ;  approaches,  recedes.  It  is  Misery  asleep. 
Now  it  presses  heavily  against  my  door.  I  hear  its  quick- 


46  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


ened  breathing.  Oh,  it  is  the  guard !  Is  it  the  death 
watch  ?  His  outline  is  lost  in  the  semi-darkness,  but  I  see 
the  whites  of  his  eyes.  They  stare  at  me,  they  watch 
and  follow  me.  I  feel  their  gaze  upon  me,  as  I 
nervously  pace  the  floor.  Unconsciously  my  step 
quickens,  but  I  cannot  escape  that  glint  of  steel.  It 
grimaces  and  mocks  me.  It  dances  before  me :  it  is 
here  and  there,  all  around  me.  Now  it  flits  up  and 
down ;  ft  doubles,  trebles.  The  fearful  eyes  stare  at 
me  from  a  hundred  depressions  in  the  wall.  On 
every  side  they  surround  me,  and  bar  my  way. 

I  bury  my  head  in  the  pillow.  My  sleep  is  restless 
and  broken.  Ever  the  terrible  gaze  is  upon  me, 
watching,  watching,  the  white  eyeballs  turning  with 
my  every  movement. 


Ill 

The  line  of  prisoners  files  by  my  cell.  They  walk 
in  twos,  conversing  in  subdued  tones.  It  is  a  motley 
crowd  from  the  ends  of  the  world.  The  native  of  the 
western  part  of  the  State,  the  “Pennsylvania  Dutch¬ 
man,”  of  stolid  mien,  passes  slowly,  in  silence.  The 
son  of  southern  Italy,  stocky  and  black-eyed,  alert 
suspicion  on  his  face,  walks  with  quick,  nervous  step. 
The  tall,  slender  Spaniard,  swarthy  and  of  classic  feature, 
looks  about  him  with  suppressed  disdain.  Each,  in 
passing,  casts  a  furtive  glance  into  my  cell.  The  last 
in  the  line  is  a  young  negro,  walking  alone.  He  nods 
and  smiles  broadly  at  me,  exposing  teeth  of  dazzling 
whiteness.  The  guard  brings  up  the  rear.  He  pauses 
at  my  door,  his  sharp  eye  measuring  me  severely, 
critically. 

“You  may  fall  in.” 

The  cell  is  unlocked,  and  I  join  the  line.  The 


THE  JAIL 


47 


negro  is  at  my  side.  He  loses  no  time  in  engaging 
me  in  conversation.  He  is  very  glad,  he  assures  me, 
that  they  have  at  last  permitted  me  to  “fall  in.”  It 
was  a  shame  to  deprive  me  of  exercise  for  four  days. 
Now  they  will  “call  de  night-dog  off.  Must  been  afeared 
o’  soocide,”  he  explains. 

His  flow  of  speech  is  incessant;  he  seems  not  a 
whit  disconcerted  by  my  evident  disinclination  to  talk. 
Would  I  have  a  cigarette?  May  smoke  in  the  cell. 
One  can  buy  “de  weed”  here,  if  he  has  “de  dough”; 
buy  anything  ’cept  booze.  He  is  full  of  the  prison 
gossip.  That  tall  man  there  is  Jack  Tinford,  of 
Homestead — sure  to  swing — threw  dynamite  at  the 
Pinkertons.  That  little  “dago”  will  keep  Jack  company — 
cut  his  wife’s  throat.  The  “Dutchy”  there  is  “bugs” — 
choked  his  son  in  sleep.  Presently  my  talkative  com¬ 
panion  volunteers  the  information  that  he  also  is 
waiting  for  trial.  Nothing  worse  than  second  degree 
murder,  though.  Can’t  hang  him,  he  laughs  gleefully. 
“His”  man  didn’t  “croak”  till  after  the  ninth  day. 
He  lightly  waves  aside  my  remark  concerning  the 
ninth-day  superstition.  He  is  convinced  they  won’t 
hang  him.  “Can’t  do’t,”  he  reiterates,  with  a  happy 
grin.  Suddenly  he  changes  the  subject.  “Wat  am 
yo  doin’  heah?  Only  murdah  cases  on  dis  ah  gal’ry. 
Yuh  man  didn’  croak!”  Evidently  he  expects  no 
answer,  immediately  assuring  me  that  I  am  “all  right.” 
“Guess  dey  b’lieve  it  am  mo’  safe  foah  yo.  But  can’t 
hang  yo,  can’t  hang  yo.”  He  grows  excited  over  the 
recital  of  his  case.  Minutely  he  describes  the  details. 
“Dat  big  niggah,  guess  ’e  t’ot  I’s  afeared  of  ’m.  He 
know  bettah  now,”  he  chuckles.  “Dis  ah  chile  am 
afeared  of  none  ov’m.  Ah  ain’t.  ‘Gwan  ’way,  niggah,’ 
Ah  says  to  ’m;  ‘yo  bettah  leab  mah  gahl  be.’  An’  dat 
big  black  niggah  grab  de  cleaveh, — we’s  in  d’otel 


48  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


kitchen,  yo  see.  ‘Niggah,  drop  dat,’  Ah  hollos,  an’  he 
come  at  me.  Den  dis  ah  coon  pull  his  trusty  li’lle 
brodeh,”  he  taps  his  pocket  significantly,  “an’  Ah  lets  de 
ornery  niggah  hab  it.  Plum’  in  de  belly,  yassah,  Ah 
does,  an’  he  drop  his  cleaveh  an’  Ah  pulls  mah  knife 
out,  two  inches,  ’bout,  an’  den  Ah  gives  it  half  twist 
like,  an’  shoves  it  in  ’gen.”  He  illustrates  the  ghastly 
motion.  “Dat  bad  niggah  neveh  botheh  me  ’gen,  noh 
nobody  else,  Ah  guess.  But  dey  can’t  hang  me,  no 
sah,  dey  can’t,  ’cause  mah  man  croak  two  weeks  later. 
Ah’s  lucky,  yassah,  Ah  is.”  His  face  is  wreathed  in 
a  broad  grin,  his  teeth  shimmer  white.  Suddenly  he 
grows  serious.  “Yo  am  strikeh?  No-o-o?  Not  a 

steel- woikeh  ?”  with  utter  amazement.  “What  yo  wan’ 
teh  shoot  Frick  foah?”  He  does  not  attempt  to  disguise 
his  impatient  incredulity,  as  I  essay  an  explanation. 
“Af eared  t’  tell.  Yo  am  deep  all  right,  Ahlick — dat 
am  yuh  name  ?  But  yo  am  right,  yassah,  yo  am 
right.  Doan’  tell  nobody.  Dey’s  mos’ly  crooks,  dat  dey 
am,  an’  dey  need  watchin’  sho’.  Yo  jes’  membuh  dat.” 

There  is  a  peculiar  movement  in  the  marching 

line.  I  notice  a  prisoner  leave  his  place.  He  casts 
an  anxious  glance  around,  and  disappears  in  the 
niche  of  the  cell  door.  The  line  continues  on  its 

march,  and,  as  I  near  the  man’s  hiding  place,  I  hear 
him  whisper,  “Fall  back,  Aleck.”  Surprised  at  being 
addressed  in  such  familiar  manner,  I  slow  down  my 
pace.  The  man  is  at  my  side. 

“Say,  Berk,  you  don’t  want  to  be  seen  walking 

with  that  ‘dinge.’  ” 

The  sound  of  my  shortened  name  grates  harshly 
on  my  ear.  I  feel  the  impulse  to  resent  the  mutilation. 
The  man’s  manner  suggests  a  lack  of  respect,  offensive 
to  my  dignity  as  a  revolutionist. 


THE  JAIL 


49 


“Why?”  I  ask,  turning  to  look  at  him. 

He  is  short  and  stocky.  The  thin  lips  and  pointed 
chin  of  the  elongated  face  suggest  the  fox.  He  meets 
my  gaze  with  a  sharp  look  from  above  his  smoked-glass 
spectacles.  His  voice  is  husky,  his  tone  unpleasantly 
confidential.  It  is  bad  for  a  white  man  to  be  seen  with 
a  “nigger,”  he  informs  me.  It  will  make  feeling  against 
me.  He  himself  is  a  Pittsburgh  man  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  but  he  was  “born  and  raised”  in  the 
South,  in  Atlanta.  They  have  no  use  for  “niggers” 
down  there,  he  assures  me.  They  must  be  taught  to 
keep  their  place,  and  they  are  no  good,  anyway. 
I  had  better  take  his  advice,  for  he  is  friendly  disposed 
toward  me.  I  must  be  very  careful  of  appearances 
before  the  trial.  My  inexperience  is  quite  evident, 
but  he  “knows  the  ropes.”  I  must  not  give  “them” 
an  opportunity  to  say  anything  against  me.  My 
behavior  in  jail  will  weigh  with  the  judge  in  determining 
my  sentence.  He  himself  expects  to  “get  off  easy.” 
He  knows  some  of  the  judges.  Mostly  good  men. 
He  ought  to  know :  helped  to  elect  one  of  them ;  voted 
three  times  for  him  at  the  last  election.  He  closes 
the  left  eye,  and  playfully  pokes  me  with  his  elbow. 
He  hopes  he’ll  “get  before  that  judge.”  He  will,  if 
he  is  lucky,  he  assures  me.  He  had  always  had 
pretty  good  luck.  Last  time  he  got  off  with  three 
years,  though  he  nearly  killed  “his”  man.  But  it  was 
in  self-defence.  Have  I  got  a  chew  of  tobacco  about 
me?  Don’t  use  the  weed?  Well,  it’ll  be  easier  in 
the  “pen.”  What’s  the  pen  ?  Why,  don’t  I  know  ? 
The  penitentiary,  of  course.  I  should  have  no  fear. 
Frick  ain’t  going  to  die.  But  what  did  I  want  to  kill 
the  man  for  ?  I  ain’t  no  Pittsburgh  man,  that  he 
could  see  plain.  What  did  I  want  to  “nose  in”  for? 
Help  the  strikers?  I  must  be  crazy  to  talk  that  way. 


50 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Why,  it  was  none  of  my  “cheese.”  Didn’t  I  come  from 
New  York?  Yes?  Well,  then,  how  could  the  strike 
concern  me  ?  I  must  have  some  personal  grudge 
against  Frick.  Ever  had  dealings  with  him?  No? 
Sure?  Then  it’s  plain  “bughouse,”  no  use  talking. 
But  it’s  different  with  his  case.  It  was  his  partner 
in  business.  He  knew  the  skunk  meant  to  cheat  him 
out  of  money,  and  they  quarreled.  Did  I  notice  the 
dark  glasses  he  wears?  Well,  his  eyes  are  bad.  He 
only  meant  to  scare  the  man.  But,  damn  him,  he 
croaked.  Curse  such  luck.  His  third  offence,  too. 
Do  I  think  the  judge  will  have  pity  on  him?  Why, 
he  is  almost  blind.  How  did  he  manage  to  “get 
his  man”?  Why,  just  an  accidental  shot.  He  didn’t 
mean  to — 

The  gong  intones  its  deep,  full  bass. 

“All  in!” 

The  line  breaks.  There  is  a  simultaneous  clatter 
of  many  doors,  and  I  am  in  the  cell  again. 


IV 

Within,  on  the  narrow  stool,  I  find  a  tin  pan  filled 
with  a  dark-brown  mixture.  It  is  the  noon  meal,  but 
the  “dinner”  does  not  look  inviting:  the  pan  is  old 
and  rusty;  the  smell  of  the  soup  excites  suspicion. 
The  greasy  surface,  dotted  here  and  there  with  specks 
of  vegetable,  resembles  a  pool  of  stagnant  water  covered 
with  green  slime.  The  first  taste  nauseates  me,  and  I 
decide  to  “dine”  on  the  remnants  of  my  breakfast — a 
piece  of  bread. 

I  pace  the  floor  in  agitation  over  the  conversation 
with  my  fellow-prisoners.  Why  can’t  they  understand 


THE  JAIL 


51 

the  motives  that  prompted  my  act?  Their  manner  of 
pitying  condescension  is  aggravating.  My  attempted 
explanation  they  evidently  considered  a  waste  of  effort. 
Not  a  striker  myself,  I  could  and  should  have  had  no 
interest  in  the  struggle, — the  opinion  seemed  final  with 
both  the  negro  and  the  white  man.  In  the  purpose  of  the 
act  they  refused  to  see  any  significance, — nothing  beyond 
the  mere  physical  effect.  It  would  have  been  a  good 
thing  if  Frick  had  died,  because  “he  was  bad.”  But 
it  is  “lucky”  for  me  that  he  didn’t  die,  they  thought, 
for  now  “they”  can’t  hang  me.  My  remark  that  the 
probable  consequences  to  myself  are  not  to  be  weighed 
in  the  scale  against  the  welfare  of  the  People,  they  had 
met  with  a  smile  of  derision,  suggestive  of  doubt  as 
to  my  sanity.  It  is,  of  course,  consoling  to  reflect 
that  neither  of  those  men  can  properly  be  said  to 
represent  the  People.  The  negro  is  a  very  inferior 
type  of  laborer;  and  the  other — he  is  a  bourgeois, 
“in  business.”  He  is  not  worth  while.  Besides,  he 
confessed  that  it  is  his  third  offence.  He  is  a  common 
criminal,  not  an  honest  producer.  But  that  tall  man — 
the  Homestead  steel-worker  whom  the  negro  pointed 
out  to  me — oh,  he  will  understand:  he  is  of  the  real 
People.  My  heart  wells  up  in  admiration  of  the 
man,  as  I  think  of  his  participation  in  the  memorable 
struggle  of  Homestead.  He  fought  the  Pinkertons, 
the  myrmidons  of  Capital.  Perhaps  he  helped  to 
dynamite  the  barges  and  drive  those  Hessians  out  of 
town.  He  is  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  his  face  strong 
and  determined,  his  body  manly  and  powerful.  He  is 
of  the  true  spirit;  the  embodiment  of  the  great, 
noble  People :  the  giant  of  labor  grown  to  his  full 
stature,  conscious  of  his  strength.  Fearless,  strong, 
and  proud,  he  will  conquer  all  obstacles ;  he  will  break 
his  chains  and  liberate  mankind. 


52  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

V 

Next  morning,  during  exercise  hour,  I  watch  with 
beating  heart  for  an  opportunity  to  converse  with  the 
Homestead  steel-worker.  I  shall  explain  to  him  the 
motives  and  purpose  of  my  attempt  on  Frick.  He 
will  understand  me;  he  will  himself  enlighten  his 
fellow-strikers.  It  is  very  important  they  should 
comprehend  my  act  quite  clearly,  and  he  is  the  very 
man  to  do  this  great  service  to  humanity.  He  is  the 
rebel-worker ;  his  heroism  during  the  struggle  bears 
witness.  I  hope  the  People  will  not  allow  the  enemy 
to  hang  him.  He  defended  the  rights  of  the  Homestead 
workers,  the  cause  of  the  whole  working  class.  No,  the 
People  will  never  allow  such  a  sacrifice.  How  well  he 
carries  himself !  Erect,  head  high,  the  look  of  conscious 
dignity  and  strength — 

“Cell  num-b-ber  fi-i-ve!” 

The  prisoner  with  the  smoked  glasses  leaves  the 
line,  and  advances  in  response  to  the  guard's  call. 
Quickly  I  pass  along  the  gallery,  and  fall  into  the 
vacant  place,  alongside  of  the  steel-worker. 

“A  happy  chance,”  I  address  him.  “I  should  like 
to  speak  to  you  about  something  important.  You  are 
one  of  the  Homestead  strikers,  are  you  not?” 

“Jack  Tinford,”  he  introduces  himself.  “What's 
your  name?” 

He  is  visibly  startled  by  my  answer.  “The  man 
who  shot  Frick?”  he  asks. 

An  expression  of  deep  anxiety  crosses  his  face. 
His  eye  wanders  to  the  gate.  Through  the  wire  net¬ 
work  I  observe  visitors  approaching  from  the  Warden’s 
office. 

“They'd  better  not  see  us  together,”  he  says, 
impatiently.  “Fall  in  back  of  me.  Then  we’ll  talk.” 


THE  JAIL 


53 


Pained  at  his  manner,  yet  not  fully  realizing  its 
significance,  I  slowly  fall  back.  His  tall,  broad  figure 
completely  hides  me  from  view.  He  speaks  to  me  in 
monosyllables,  unwillingly.  At  the  mention  of  Home¬ 
stead  he  grows  more  communicative,  talking  in  an 
undertone,  as  if  conversing  with  his  neighbor,  the 
Sicilian,  who  does  not  understand  a  syllable  of  English. 
I  strain  my  ear  to  catch  his  words.  The  steel-workers 
merely  defended  themselves  against  armed  invaders, 
I  hear  him  say.  They  are  not  on  strike :  they’ve  been 
locked  out  by  Frick,  because  he  wants  to  non-unionize 
the  works.  That’s  why  he  broke  the  contract  with 
the  Amalgamated,  and  hired  the  damned  Pinkertons 
two  months  before,  when  all  was  peace.  They  shot 
many  workers  from  the  barges  before  the  millmen 
“got  after  them.”  They  deserved  roasting  alive  for 
their  unprovoked  murders.  Well,  the  men  “fixed  them 
all  right.”  Some  were  killed,  others  committed  suicide 
on  the  burning  barges,  and  the  rest  were  forced  to 
surrender  like  whipped  curs..  A  grand  victory  all 
right,  if  that  coward  of  a  sheriff  hadn’t  got  the 
Governor  to  send  the  militia  to  Homestead.  But  it 
was  a  victory,  you  bet,  for  the  boys  to  get  the  best 
of  three  hundred  armed  Pinkertons.  He  himself, 
though,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  fight.  He  was  sick 
at  the  time.  They’re  trying  to  get  the  Pinkertons  to 
swear  his  life  away.  One  of  the  hounds  has  already 
made  an  affidavit  that  he  saw  him,  Jack  Tinford,  throw 
dynamite  at  the  barges,  before  the  Pinkertons  landed. 
But  never  mind,  he  is  not  afraid.  No  Pittsburgh  jury 
will  believe  those  lying  murderers.  He  was  in  his 
sweetheart’s  house,  sick  abed.  The  girl  and  her  mother 
will  prove  an  alibi  for  him.  And  the  Advisory  Com¬ 
mittee  of  the  Amalgamated,  too.  They  know  he  wasn’t 
on  the  shore.  They’ll  swear  to  it  in  court,  anyhow — 


54  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Abruptly  he  ceases,  a  look  of  fear  on  his  face.  For 
a  moment  he  is  lost  in  thought.  Then  he  gives  me  a 
searching  look,  and  smiles  at  me.  As  we  turn  the 
corner  of  the  walk,  he  whispers:  “Too  bad  you  didn’t 
kill  him.  Some  business  misunderstanding,  eh?”  he 
adds,  aloud. 

Could  he  be  serious,  I  wonder.  Does  he  only  pre¬ 
tend?  He  faces  straight  ahead,  and  I  am  unable  to  see 
his  expression.  I  begin  the  careful  explanation  I  had 
prepared : 

“Jack,  it  was  for  you,  for  your  people  that  I — ” 

Impatiently,  angrily  he  interrupts  me.  I’d  better 
be  careful  not  to  talk  that  way  in  court,  he  warns  me. 
If  Frick  should  die,  I’d  hang  myself  with  such  “gab.” 
And  it  would  only  harm  the  steel-workers.  They 
don’t  believe  in  killing;  they  respect  the  law.  Of 
course,  they  had  a  right  to  defend  their  homes  and 
families  against  unlawful  invaders.  But  they  welcomed 
the  militia  to  Homestead.  They  showed  their  respect 
for  authority.  To  be  sure,  Frick  deserves  to  die.  He 
is  a  murderer.  But  the  mill-workers  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  Anarchists.  What  did  I  want  to  kill  him 
for,  anyhow?  I  did  not  belong  to  the  Homestead 
men.  It  was  none  of  my  business.  I  had  better  not 
say  anything  about  it  in  court,  or — 

The  gong  tolls. 

“All  in!” 

VI 

I  pass  a  sleepless  night.  The  events  of  the  day 
have  stirred  me  to  the  very  depths.  Bitterness  and 
anger  against  the  Homestead  striker  fill  my  heart. 
My  hero  of  yesterday,  the  hero  of  the  glorious  struggle 
of  the  People, — how  contemptible  he  has  proved  himself, 
how  cravenly  small !  No  consciousness  of  the  great 


THE  JAIL 


55 


mission  of  his  class,  no  proud  realization  of  the  part 
he  himself  had  acted  in  the  noble  struggle.  A  cowardly, 
overgrown  boy,  terrified  at  to-morrow’s  punishment  for 
the  prank  he  has  played!  Meanly  concerned  only  with 
his  own  safety,  and  willing  to  resort  to  lying,  in  order 
to  escape  responsibility. 

The  very  thought  is  appalling.  It  is  a  sacrilege, 
an  insult  to  the  holy  Cause,  to  the  People.  To  myself, 
too.  Not  that  lying  is  to  be  condemned,  provided  it 
is  in  the  interest  of  the  Cause.  All  means  are  justified 
in  the  war  of  humanity  against  its  enemies.  Indeed, 
the  more  repugnant  the  means,  the  stronger  the  test 
of  one’s  nobility  and  devotion.  All  great  revolutionists 
have  proved  that.  There  is  no  more  striking  example 
in  the  annals  of  the  Russian  movement  than  that 
peerless  Nihilist — what  was  his  name?  Why,  how 
peculiar  that  it  should  escape  me  just  now!  I  knew  it 
so  well.  He  undermined  the  Winter  Palace,  beneath 
the  very  dining-room  of  the  Tsar.  What  debasement, 
what  terrible  indignities  he  had  to  endure  in  the  role 
of  the  servile,  simple-minded  peasant  carpenter.  How 
his  proud  spirit  must  have  suffered,  for  weeks  and 
months, — all  for  the  sake  of  his  great  purpose.  Wonder¬ 
ful  man!  To  be  worthy  of  your  comradeship.  .  .  . 
But  this  Homestead  worker,  what  a  pigmy  by  com¬ 
parison.  He  is  absorbed  in  the  single  thought  of  saving 
himself,  the  traitor.  A  veritable  Judas,  preparing  to 
forswear  his  people  and  their  cause,  willing  to  lie  and 
deny  his  participation.  How  proud  I  should  be  in  his 
place:  to  have  fought  on  the  barricades,  as  he  did! 
And  then  to  die  for  it, — ah,  could  there  be  a  more 
glorious  fate  for  a  man,  a  real  man?  To  serve  even 
as  the  least  stone  in  the  foundation  of  a  free  society, 
or  as  a  plank  in  the  bridge  across  which  the  triumphant 
People  shall  finally  pass  into  the  land  of  promise? 


56  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


A  plank  in  the  bridge.  ...  In  the  most  .*  What  a 
significant  name!  How  it  impressed  me  the  first  time 
I  heard  it!  No,  I  saw  it  in  print,  I  remember  quite 
clearly.  Mother  had  just  died.  I  was  dreaming  of 
the  New  World,  the  Land  of  Freedom.  Eagerly  I 
read  every  line  of  “American  news.”  One  day,  in  the 
little  Kovno  library — how  distinctly  it  all  comes  back 
to  me — I  can  see  myself  sitting  there,  perusing  the 
papers.  Must  get  acquainted  with  the  country.  What 
is  this?  “Anarchists  hanged  in  Chicago.”  There  are 
many  names — one  is  “Most.”  “What  is  an  Anarchist?” 
I  whisper  to  the  student  near  by.  He  is  from  Peter,** 
he  will  know.  “S — sh!  Same  as  Nihilists.”  “In  free 
America?”  I  wondered. 

How  little  I  knew  of  America  then!  A  free  country, 
indeed,  that  hangs  its  noblest  men.  And  the  misery, 
the  exploitation, — it’s  terrible.  I  must  mention  all  this 
in  court,  in  my  defence.  No,  not  defence — some  fitter 
word.  Explanation!  Yes,  my  explanation.  I  need 
no  defence:  I  don’t  consider  myself  guilty.  What  did 
the  Warden  mean?  Fool  for  a  client,  he  said,  when 
I  told  him  that  I  would  refuse  legal  aid.  He  thinks  I 
am  a  fool.  Well,  he’s  a  bourgeois,  he  can’t  understand. 
I’ll  tell  him  to  leave  me  alone.  He  belongs  to  the 
enemy.  The  lawyers,  too.  They  are  all  in  the  capitalist 
camp.  I  need  no  lawyers.  They  couldn't  explain  my 
case.  I  shall  not  talk  to  the  reporters,  either.  They 
are  a  lying  pack,  those  journalistic  hounds  of  capitalism. 
They  always  misrepresent  us.  And  they  know  better, 
too.  They  wrote  columns  of  interviews  with  Most 
when  he  went  to  prison.  All  lies.  I  saw  him  off 
myself ;  he  didn’t  say  a  word  to  them.  They  are 
our  worst  enemies.  The  Warden  said  that  they’ll 


*  Russian  for  “bridge.” 

**  Popular  abbreviation  of  St.  Petersburg. 


THE  JAIL 


57 


come  to  see  me  to-morrow.  I’ll  have  nothing  to  say 
to  them.  They’re  sure  to  twist  my  words,  and  thus 
impair  the  effect  of  my  act.  It  is  not  complete  without 
my  explanation.  I  shall  prepare  it  very  carefully.  Of 
course,  the  jury  won’t  understand.  They,  too,  belong 
to  the  capitalist  class.  But  I  must  use  the  trial  to 
talk  to  the  People.  To  be  sure,  an  Attentat  on  a  Frick 
is  in  itself  splendid  propaganda.  It  combines  the 
value  of  example  with  terroristic  effect.  But  very 
much  depends  upon  my  explanation.  It  offers  me  a 
rare  opportunity  for  a  broader  agitation  of  our  ideas. 
The  comrades  outside  will  also  use  my  act  for 
propaganda.  The  People  misunderstand  us:  they  have 
been  prejudiced  by  the  capitalist  press.  They  must 
be  enlightened;  that  is  our  glorious  task.  Very  difficult 
and  slow  work,  it  is  true;  but  they  will  learn.  Their 
patience  will  break,  and  then — the  good  People,  they 
have  always  been  too  kind  to  their  enemies.  And  brave, 
even  in  their  suffering.  Yes,  very  brave.  Not  like  that 
fellow,  the  steel-worker.  He  is  a  disgrace  to  Homestead, 
the  traitor.  .  .  . 

I  pace  the  cell  in  agitation.  The  Judas-striker  is 
not  fit  to  live.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  they  should 
hang  him.  His  death  would  help  to  open  the  eyes  of  the 
People  to  the  real  character  of  legal  justice.  Legal 
justice — what  a  travesty!  They  are  mutually  exclusive 
terms.  Yes,  indeed,  it  would  be  best  he  should  be 
hanged.  The  Pinkerton  will  testify  against  him.  He 
saw  Jack  throw  dynamite.  Very  good.  Perhaps  others 
will  also  swear  to  it.  The  judge  will  believe  the  Pinker¬ 
tons.  Yes,  they  will  hang  him. 

The  thought  somewhat  soothes  my  perturbation. 
At  least  the  cause  of  the  People  will  benefit  to  some 
extent.  The  man  himself  is  not  to  be  considered. 


58  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


He  has  ceased  to  exist:  his  interests  are  exclusively 
personal;  he  can  be  of  no  further  benefit  to  the  People. 
Only  his  death  can  aid  the  Cause.  It  is  best  for  him 
to  end  his  career  in  the  service  of  humanity.  I  hope 
he  will  act  like  a  man  on  the  scaffold.  The  enemy 
should  not  gloat  over  his  fear,  his  craven  terror. 
They’ll  see  in  him  the  spirit  of  the  People.  Of  course, 
he  is  not  worthy  of  it.  But  he  must  die  like  a  rebel- 
worker,  bravely,  defiantly.  I  must  speak  to  him  about  it. 

The  deep  bass  of  the  gong  dispels 'my  reverie. 

VII 

There  is  a  distinct  sense  of  freedom  in  the  solitude 
of  the  night.  The  day’s  atmosphere  is  surcharged  with 
noisome  anxiety,  the  hours  laden  with  impending 
terrors.  But  the  night  is  soothing.  For  the  first  time  I 
feel  alone,  unobserved.  The  “night-dog  has  been  called 
off.”  How  refinedly  brutal  is  this  constant  care  lest  the 
hangman  be  robbed  of  his  prey!  A  simple  precaution 
against  suicide,  the  Warden  told  me.  I  felt  the  naive 
stupidity  of  the  suggestion  like  the  thrust  of  a  dagger. 
What  a  tremendous  chasm  in  our  mental  attitudes! 
His  mind  cannot  grasp  the  impossibility  of  suicide 
before  I  have  explained  to  the  People  the  motive  and 
purpose  of  my  act.  Suicide?  As  if  the  mere  death 
of  Frick  was  my  object!  The  very  thought  is  impos¬ 
sible,  insulting.  It  outrages  me  that  even  a  bourgeois 
should  so  meanly  misjudge  the  aspirations  of  an  active 
revolutionist.  The  insignificant  reptile,  Frick, — as  if 
the  mere  man  were  worth  a  terroristic  effort!  I  aimed 
at  the  many-headed  hydra  whose  visible  representative 
was  Frick.  The  Homestead  developments  had  given 
him  temporary  prominence,  thrown  this  particular  hydra- 
head  into  bold  relief,  so  to  speak.  That  alone  made  him 


THE  JAIL 


59 


worthy  of  the  revolutionist’s  attention.  Primarily,  as 
an  object  lesson;  it  would  strike  terror  into  the  soul 
of  his  class.  They  are  craven-hearted,  their  conscience 
weighted  with  guilt, — and  life  is  dear  to  them.  Their 
strangling  hold  on  labor  might  be  loosened.  Only  for 
a  while,  no  doubt.  But  that  much  would  be  gained, 
due  to  the  act  of  the  Attentdter.  The  People  could  not 
fail  to  realize  the  depth  of  a  love  that  will  give  its 
own  life  for  their  cause.  To  give  a  young  life,  full  of 
health  and  vitality,  to  give  all,  without  a  thought  of  self ; 
to  give  all,  voluntarily,  cheerfully ;  nay,  enthusiastically — 
could  any  one  fail  to  understand  such  a  love? 

But  this  is  the  first  terrorist  act  in  America.  The 
People  may  fail  to  comprehend  it  thoroughly.  Yet  they 
will  know  that  an  Anarchist  committed  the  deed.  I  will 
talk  to  them  from  the  courtroom.  And  my  comrades 
at  liberty  will  use  the  opportunity  to  the  utmost  to  shed 
light  on  the  questions  involved.  Such  a  deed  must  draw 
the  attention  of  the  world.  This  first  act  of  voluntary 
Anarchist  sacrifice  will  make  the  workingmen  think 
deeply.  Perhaps  even  more  so  than  the  Chicago  martyr¬ 
dom.  The  latter  was  preeminently  a  lesson  in  capitalist 
justice.  The  culmination  of  a  plutocratic  conspiracy, 
the  tragedy  of  1887  lacked  the  element  of  voluntary 
Anarchist  self-sacrifice  in  the  interests  of  the  People. 
In  that  distinctive  quality  my  act  is  initial.  Perhaps 
it  will  prove  the  entering  wedge.  The  leaven  of 
growing  oppression  is  at  work.  It  is  for  us,  the 
Anarchists,  to  educate  labor  to  its  great  mission.  Let  the 
world  learn  of  the  misery  of  Homestead.  The  sudden 
thunderclap  gives  warning  that  beyond  the  calm  horizon 
the  storm  is  gathering.  The  lightning  of  social  protest — 

“Quick,  Ahlick !  Plant  it.”  Something  white  flutters 
between  the  bars.  Hastily  I  read  the  newspaper  clipping. 


6o 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Glorious!  Who  would  have  expected  it?  A  soldier  in 
one  of  the  regiments  stationed  at  Homestead  called  upon 
the  line  to  give  “three  cheers  for  the  man  who  shot 
Frick.”  My  soul  overflows  with  beautiful  hopes.  Such 
a  wonderful  spirit  among  the  militia;  perhaps  the  sol¬ 
diers  will  fraternize  with  the  strikers.  It  is  by  no  means 
an  impossibility :  such  things  have  happened  before. 
After  all,  they  are  of  the  People,  mostly  workingmen. 
Their  interests  are  identical  with  those  of  the  strikers, 
and  surely  they  hate  Frick,  who  is  universally  con¬ 
demned  for  his  brutality,  his  arrogance.  This  soldier — 
what  is  his  name?  lams,  W.  L.  lams — he  typifies  the 
best  feeling  of  the  regiment.  The  others  probably  lack 
his  courage.  They  feared  to  respond  to  his  cheers, 
especially  because  of  the  Colonel’s  presence.  But 
undoubtedly  most  of  them  feel  as  lams  does.  It  would 
be  dangerous  for  the  enemy  to  rely  upon  the  Tenth 
Pennsylvania.  And  in  the  other  Homestead  regiments, 
there  must  also  be  such  noble  Iamses.  They  will  not 
permit  their  comrade  to  be  court-martialed,  as  the 
Colonel  threatens.  lams  is  not  merely  a  militia  man. 
He  is  a  citizen,  a  native.  He  has  the  right  to  express 
his  opinion  regarding  my  deed.  If  he  had  condemned 
it,  he  would  not  be  punished.  May  he  not,  then,  voice 
a  favorable  sentiment?  No,  they  can’t  punish  him. 
And  he  is  surely  very  popular  among  the  soldiers. 
How  manfully  he  behaved  as  the  Colonel  raged  before 
the  regiment,  and  demanded  to  know  who  cheered  for 
“the  assassin  of  Mr.  Frick,”  as  the  imbecile  put  it. 
lams  stepped  out  of  the  ranks,  and  boldly  avowed 
his  act.  He  could  have  remained  silent,  or  denied  it. 
But  he  is  evidently  not  like  that  cowardly  steel-worker. 
He  even  refused  the  Colonel’s  offer  to  apologize. 

Brave  boy!  He  is  the  right  material  for  a  revo¬ 
lutionist.  Such  a  man  has  no  business  to  belong  to 


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61 


the  militia.  He  should  know  for  what  purpose  it  is 
intended:  a  tool  of  capitalism  in  the  enslavement  of 
labor.  After  all,  it  will  benefit  him  to  be  court- 
martialed.  It  will  enlighten  him.  I  must  follow  the 
case.  Perhaps  the  negro  will  give  me  more  clippings. 
It  was  very  generous  of  him  to  risk  this  act  of  friend¬ 
ship.  The  Warden  has  expressly  interdicted  the  passing 
of  newspapers  to  me,  though  the  other  prisoners  are 
permitted  to  buy  them.  He  discriminates  against  me 
in  every  possible  way.  A  rank  ignoramus:  he  cannot 
even  pronounce  “Anarchist.”  Yesterday  he  said  to  me: 
“The  Anachrists  are  no  good.  What  do  they  want, 
anyhow?”  I  replied,  angrily:  “First  you  say  they 
are  no  good,  then  you  ask  what  they  want.”  He 
flushed.  “Got  no  use  for  them,  anyway.”  Such  an 
imbecile!  Not  the  least  sense  of  justice — he  con¬ 
demns  without  knowing.  I  believe  he  is  aiding  the 
detectives.  Why  does  he  insist  I  should  plead  guilty? 
I  have  repeatedly  told  him  that,  though  I  do  not  deny 
the  act,  I  am  innocent.  The  stupid  laughed  outright. 
“Better  plead  guilty,  you’ll  get  off  easier.  You  did  it, 
so  better  plead  guilty.”  In  vain  I  strove  to  explain  to 
him:  “I  don’t  believe  in  your  laws,  I  don’t  acknowledge 
the  authority  of  your  courts.  I  am  innocent,  morally.” 
The  aggravating  smile  of  condescending  wisdom  kept 
playing  about  his  lips.  “Plead  guilty.  Take  my  advice, 
plead  guilty.” 

Instinctively  I  sense  some  presence  at  the  door.  The 
small,  cunning  eyes  of  the  Warden  peer  intently 
through  the  bars.  I  feel  him  an  enemy.  Well,  he  may 
have  the  clipping  now  if  he  wishes.  But  no  torture 
shall  draw  from  me  an  admission  incriminating  the 
negro.  The  name  Rakhmetov  flits  through  my  mind. 
I  shall  be  true  to  that  memory. 


62  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

“A  gentleman  in  my  office  wishes  to  see  you,”  the 
Warden  informs  me. 

“Who  is  he?” 

“A  friend  of  yours,  from  Pittsburgh.” 

“I  know  no  one  in  Pittsburgh.  I  don’t  care  to  see 
the  man.” 

The  Warden’s  suave  insistence  arouses  my  sus¬ 
picions.  Why  should  he  be  so  much  interested  in 
my  seeing  a  stranger?  Visits  are  privileges,  I  have 
been  told.  I  decline  the  privilege.  But  the  Warden 
insists.  I  refuse.  Finally  he  orders  me  out  of  the  cell. 
Two  guards  lead  me  into  the  hallway.  They  halt  me 
at  the  head  of  a  line  of  a  dozen  men.  Six  are  counted 
off,  and  I  am  assigned  to  the  seventh  place.  I  notice 
that  I  am  the  only  one  in  the  line  wearing  glasses.  The 
Warden  enters  from  an  inner  office,  accompanied  by 
three  visitors.  They  pass  down  the  row,  scrutiniz¬ 
ing  each  face.  They  return,  their  gaze  fixed  on  the 
men.  One  of  the  strangers  makes  a  motion  as  if  to  put 
his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man  on  my  left.  The 
Warden  hastily  calls  the  visitors  aside.  They  con¬ 
verse  in  whispers,  then  walk  up  the  line,  and  pass 
slowly  back,  till  they  are  alongside  of  me.  The  tall 
stranger  puts  his  hand  familiarly  on  my  shoulder, 
exclaiming : 

“Don’t  you  recognize  me,  Mr.  Berkman?  I  met  you 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  right  in  front  of  the  Telegraph 
building.”* 

“I  never  saw  you  before  in  my  life.” 

“Oh,  yes!  You  remember  I  spoke  to  you — ” 

“No,  you  did  not,”  I  interrupt,  impatiently. 

“Take  him  back,”  the  Warden  commands. 

*  The  building  in  which  the  offices  of  the  Carnegie  Company 
were  located. 


THE  JAIL 


63 


I  protest  against  the  perfidious  proceeding.  “A 
positive  identification,”  the  Warden  asserts.  The  de¬ 
tective  had  seen  me  “in  the  company  of  two  friends, 
inspecting  the  office  of  Mr.  Frick.”  Indignantly  I  deny 
the  false  statement,  charging  him  with  abetting  the  con¬ 
spiracy  to  involve  my  comrades.  He  grows  livid  with 
rage,  and  orders  me  deprived  of  exercise  that  afternoon. 

The  Warden’s  role  in  the  police  plot  is  now  apparent 
to  me.  I  realize  him  in  his  true  colors.  Ignorant 
though  he  is,  familiarity  with  police  methods  has  devel¬ 
oped  in  him  a  certain  shrewdness:  the  low  cunning  of 
the  fox  seeking  its  prey.  The  good-natured  smile  masks 
a  depth  of  malice,  his  crude  vanity  glorying  in  the 
successful  abuse  of  his  wardenship  over  unfortunate 
human  beings. 

This  new  appreciation  of  his  character  clarifies 
various  incidents  heretofore  puzzling  to  me.  My  mail  is 
being  detained  at  the  office,  I  am  sure.  It  is  impossible 
that  my  New  York  comrades  should  have  neglected  me 
so  long:  it  is  now  over  a  week  since  my  arrest.  As  a 
matter  of  due  precaution,  they  would  not  communicate 
with  me  at  once.  But  two  or  three  days  would  be 
sufficient  to  perfect  a  Deckadresse*  Yet  not  a  line  has 
reached  me  from  them.  It  is  evident  that  my  mail  is 
being  detained. 

My  reflections  rouse  bitter  hatred  of  the  Warden. 
His  infamy  fills  me  with  rage.  The  negro’s  warning 
against  the  occupant  of  the  next  cell  assumes  a  new 
aspect.  Undoubtedly  the  man  is  a  spy;  placed  there 
by  the  Warden,  evidently.  Little  incidents,  insignificant 
in  themselves,  add  strong  proof  to  justify  the  suspicion. 
It  grows  to  conviction  as  I  review  various  circumstances 

*  A  “disguise”  address,  to  mask  the  identity  of  the  corre¬ 
spondent. 


64  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


concerning  my  neighbor.  The  questions  I  deemed 
foolish,  prompted  by  mere  curiosity,  I  now  see  in  the 
light  of  the  Warden’s  role  as  volunteer  detective.  The 
young  negro  was  sent  to  the  dungeon  for  warning  me 
against  the  spy  in  the  next  cell.  But  the  latter  is  never 
reported,  notwithstanding  his  continual  knocking  and 
talking.  Specially  privileged,  evidently.  And  the 
Warden,  too,  is  hand-in-glove  with  the  police.  I  am 
convinced  he  himself  caused  the  writing  of  those  letters 
he  gave  me  yesterday.  They  were  postmarked  Home¬ 
stead,  from  a  pretended  striker.  They  want  to  blow  up 
the  mills,  the  letter  said;  good  bombs  are  needed.  I 
should  send  them  the  addresses  of  my  friends  who  know 
how  to  make  effective  explosives.  What  a  stupid  trap ! 
One  of  the  epistles  sought  to  involve  some  of  the  strike 
leaders  in  my  act.  In  another,  John  Most  was  mentioned. 
Well,  I  am  not  to  be  caught  with  such  chaff.  But  I  must 
be  on  my  guard.  It  is  best  I  should  decline  to  accept 
mail.  They  withhold  the  letters  of  my  friends,  anyhow. 
Yes,  I’ll  refuse  all  mail. 

I  feel  myself  surrounded  by  enemies,  open  and  secret. 
Not  a  single  being  here  I  may  call  friend;  except  the 
negro,  who,  I  know,  wishes  me  well.  I  hope  he  will 
give  me  more  clippings, — perhaps  there  will  be  news  of 
my  comrades.  I’ll  try  to  “fall  in”  with  him  at  exercise 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  Oh !  they  are  handing  out  tracts.  To¬ 
morrow  is  Sunday, — no  exercise! 


VIII 

The  Lord’s  day  is  honored  by  depriving  the  prisoners 
of  dinner.  A  scanty  allowance  of  bread,  with  a  tincup- 
ful  of  black,  unsweetened  coffee,  constitutes  breakfast. 
Supper  is  a  repetition  of  the  morning  meal,  except  that 


THE  JAIL 


65 


the  coffee  looks  thinner,  the  tincup  more  rusty.  I  force 
myself  to  swallow  a  mouthful  by  shutting  my  eyes.  It 
tastes  like  greasy  dishwater,  with  a  bitter  suggestion  of 
burnt  bread. 

Exercise  is  also  abolished  on  the  sacred  day.  The 
atmosphere  is  pervaded  with  the  gloom  of  unbroken 
silence.  In  the  afternoon,  I  hear  the  creaking  of  the 
inner  gate.  There  is  much  swishing  of  dresses:  the 
good  ladies  of  the  tracts  are  being  seated.  The  doors 
on  Murderers’  Row  are  opened  partly,  at  a  fifteen-degree 
angle.  The  prisoners  remain  in  their  cells,  with  the 
guards  stationed  at  the  gallery  entrances. 

All  is  silent.  I  can  hear  the  beating  of  my  heart  in 
the  oppressive  quiet.  A  faint  shadow  crosses  the  dark¬ 
some  floor;  now  it  oscillates  on  the  bars.  I  hear  the 
muffled  fall  of  felt-soled  steps.  Silently  the  turnkey 
passes  the  cell,  like  a  flitting  mystery  casting  its  shadow 
athwart  a  troubled  soul.  I  catch  the  glint  of  a  revolver 
protruding  from  his  pocket. 

Suddenly  the  sweet  strains  of  a  violin  resound  in 
the  corridor.  Female  voices  swell  the  melody,  “Nearer 
my  God  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee.”  Slowly  the  volume 
expands;  it  rises,  grows  more  resonant  in  contact  with 
the  gallery  floor,  and  echoes  in  my  cell,  “Nearer  to 
Thee,  to  Thee.” 

The  sounds  die  away.  A  deep  male  voice  utters, 
“Let  us  pray.”  Its  metallic  hardness  rings  like  a  com¬ 
mand.  The  guards  stand  with  lowered  heads.  Their 
lips  mumble  after  the  invisible  speaker,  “Our  Father 
who  art  in  Heaven,  give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.  .  .  . 
Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  that  tres¬ 
pass  against  us - ” 

“Like  hell  you  do !”  some  one  shouts  from  the  upper 
gallery.  There  is  suppressed  giggling  in  the  cells. 
Pellmell  the  officers  rush  up  the  stairs.  The  uproar 


66 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


increases.  “Order!”  'Yells  and  catcalls  drown  the 
Warden’s  voice.  Doors  are  violently  opened  and  shut. 
The  thunder  of  rattling  iron  is  deafening.  Suddenly  all 
is  quiet:  the  guards  have  reached  the  galleries.  Only 
hasty  tiptoeing  is  heard. 

The  offender  cannot  be  found.  The  gong  rings  the 
supper  hour.  The  prisoners  stand  at  the  doors,  cup  in 
hand,  ready  to  receive  the  coffee. 

“Give  the  s -  of  b -  no  supper!  No  supper!” 

roars  the  Warden. 

Sabbath  benediction! 

The  levers  are  pulled,  and  we  are  locked  in  for 
the  night. 


IX 

In  agitation  I  pace  the  cell.  Frick  didn’t  die!  He 
has  almost  recovered.  I  have  positive  information:  the 
“blind”  prisoner  gave  me  the  clipping  during  exercise. 
“You’re  a  poor  shot,”  he  teased  me. 

The  poignancy  of  the  disappointment  pierces  my 
heart.  I  feel  it  with  the  intensity  of  a  catastrophe.  My 
imprisonment,  the  vexations  of  jail  life,  the  future — 
all  is  submerged  in  the  flood  of  misery  at  the  realization 
of  my  failure.  Bitter  thoughts  crowd  my  mind;  self¬ 
accusation  overwhelms  me.  I  failed!  Failed!  ...  It 
might  have  been  different,  had  I  gone  to  Frick’s  resi¬ 
dence.  It  was  my  original  intention,  too.  But  the  house 
in  the  East  End  was  guarded.  Besides,  I  had  no  time  to 
wait:  that  very  morning  the  papers  had  announced 
Frick’s  intended  visit  to  New  York.  I  was  determined 
he  should  not  escape  me.  I  resolved  to  act  at  once.  It 
was  mainly  his  cowardice  that  saved  him — he  hid  under 
the  chair !  Played  dead !  And  now  he  lives,  the  vam¬ 
pire.  .  .  .  And  Homestead?  How  will  it  affect  condi- 


THE  JAIL 


67 


tions  there?  If  Frick  had  died,  Carnegie  would  have 
hastened  to  settle  with  the  strikers.  The  shrewd  Scot 
only  made  use  of  Frick  to  destroy  the  hated  union.  He 
himself  was  absent,  he  could  not  be  held  accountable. 
The  author  of  “Triumphant  Democracy’’  is  sensitive  to 
adverse  criticism.  With  the  elimination  of  Frick, 
responsibility  for  Homestead  conditions  would  rest 
with  Carnegie.  To  support  his  role  as  the  friend  of 
labor,  he  must  needs  terminate  the  sanguinary  struggle. 
Such  a  development  of  affairs  would  have  greatly 
advanced  the  Anarchist  propaganda.  However  some 
may  condemn  my  act,  the  workers  could  not  be  blind  to 
the  actual  situation,  and  the  practical  effects  of  Frick’s 
death.  But  his  recovery  .... 

Yet,  who  can  tell?  It  may  perhaps  have  the  same 
results.  If  not,  the  strike  was  virtually  lost  when  the 
steel-workers  permitted  the  militia  to  take  possession 
of  Homestead.  It  afforded  the  Company  an  opportunity 
to  fill  the  mills  with  scabs.  But  even  if  the  strike  be 
lost, — our  propaganda  is  the  chief  consideration.  The 
Homestead  workers  are  but  a  very  small  part  of  the 
American  working  class.  Important  as  this  great  struggle 
is,  the  cause  of  the  whole  People  is  supreme.  And  their 
true  cause  is  Anarchism.  All  other  issues  are  merged  in 
it ;  it  alone  will  solve  the  labor  problem.  No  other  con¬ 
sideration  deserves  attention.  The  suffering  of  indi¬ 
viduals,  of  large  masses,  indeed,  is  unavoidable  under  t 
capitalist  conditions.  Poverty  and  wretchedness  must 
constantly  increase;  it  is  inevitable.  A  revolutionist 
cannot  be  influenced  by  mere  sentimentality.  We  bleed 
for  the  People,  we  suffer  for  them,  but  we  know  the 
real  source  of  their  misery.  Our  whole  civilization,  false 
to  the  core  as  it  is,  must  be  destroyed,  to  be  born  anew. 
Only  with  the  abolition  of  exploitation  will  labor  gain 
justice.  Anarchism  alone  can  save  the  world. 


68  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


These  reflections  somewhat  soothe  me.  My  failure 
to  accomplish  the  desired  result  is  grievously  exasperat¬ 
ing,  and  I  feel  deeply  humiliated.  But  I  shall  be  the 
sole  sufferer.  Properly  viewed,  the  merely  physical 
result  of  my  act  cannot  affect  its  propagandists  value ; 
and  that  is,  always,  the  supreme  consideration.  The 
chief  purpose  of  my  Attentat  was  to  call  attention  to  our 
social  iniquities ;  to  arouse  a  vital  interest  in  the  sufferings 
of  the  People  by  an  act  of  self-sacrifice;  to  stimulate 
discussion  regarding  the  cause  and  purpose  of  the  act, 
and  thus  bring  the  teachings  of  Anarchism  before  the 
world.  The  Homestead  situation  offered  the  psychologic 
social  moment.  What  matter  the  personal  consequences 
to  Frick?  the  merely  physical  results  of  my  Attentat? 
The  conditions  necessary  for  propaganda  are  there:  the 
act  is  accomplished. 

As  to  myself — my  disappointment  is  bitter,  indeed. 
I  wanted  to  die  for  the  Cause.  But  now  they  will  send 
me  to  prison — they  will  bury  me  alive.  .  .  . 

Involuntarily  my  hand  reaches  for  the  lapel  of  my 
coat,  when  suddenly  I  remember  my  great  loss.  In 
agony,  I  live  through  again  the  scene  in  the  police  sta¬ 
tion,  on  the  third  day  after  my  arrest.  .  .  .  Rough  hands 
seize  my  arms,  and  I  am  forced  into  a  chair.  My  head 
is  thrust  violently  backward,  and  I  face  the  Chief.  He 
clutches  me  by  the  throat. 

“Open  your  mouth  1  Damn  you,  open  your  mouth !” 

Everything  is  whirling  before  me,  the  desk  is  circling 
the  room,  the  bloodshot  eyes  of  the  Chief  gaze  at  me 
from  the  floor,  his  feet  flung  high  in  the  air,  and 
everything  is  whirling,  whirling.  .  .  . 

“Now,  Doc,  quick!” 

There  is  a  sharp  sting  in  my  tongue,  my  jaws  are 
gripped  as  by  a  vise,  and  my  mouth  is  torn  open. 

“What  d’ye  think  of  that,  eh?” 


THE  JAIL 


69 


The  Chief  stands  before  me,  in  his  hand  the  dynamite 
cartridge. 

“What’s  this?”  he  demands,  with  an  oath. 

“Candy,”  I  reply,  defiantly. 


X 

How  full  of  anxiety  these  two  weeks  have  been ! 
Still  no  news  of  my  comrades.  The  Warden  is  not 
offering  me  any  more  mail ;  he  evidently  regards  my 
last  refusal  as  final.  But  I  am  now  permitted  to  purchase 
papers ;  they  may  contain  something  about  my  friends. 
If  I  could  only  learn  what  propaganda  is  being  made  out 
of  my  act,  and  what  the  Girl  and  Fedya  are  doing!  I 
long  to  know  what  is  happening  with  them.  But  my 
interest  is  merely  that  of  the  revolutionist.  They  are  so 
far  away, — I  do  not  count  among  the  living.  On  the  out¬ 
side,  everything  seems  to  continue  as  usual,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Frick  is  quite  well  now;  at  his  desk 
again,  the  press  reports.  Nothing  else  of  importance. 
The  police  seem  to  have  given  up  their  hunt.  How 
ridiculous  the  Chief  has  made  himself  by  kidnaping  my 
friend  Mollock,  the  New  York  baker!  The  impudence 
of  the  authorities,  to  decoy  an  unsuspecting  workingman 
across  the  State  line,  and  then  arrest  him  as  my  accom¬ 
plice!  I  suppose  he  is  the  only  Anarchist  the  stupid 
Chief  could  find.  My  negro  friend  informed  me  of  the 
kidnaping  last  week.  But  I  felt  no  anxiety :  I  knew  the 
“silent  baker”  would  prove  deaf  and  dumb.  Not  a  word 
could  they  draw  from  him.  Mollock’s  discharge  by  the 
magistrate  put  the  Chief  in  a  very  ludicrous  position. 
Now  he  is  thirsting  for  revenge,  and  probably  seeking  a 
victim  nearer  home,  in  Allegheny.  But  if  the  comrades 
preserve  silence,  all  will  be  well,  for  I  was  careful  to 


70 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


leave  no  clew.  I  had  told  them  that  my  destination  was 
Chicago,  where  I  expected  to  secure  a  position.  I  can 
depend  on  Bauer  and  Nold.  But  that  man  E.,  whom 
I  found  living  in  the  same  house  with  Nold,  impressed 
me  as  rather  unreliable.  *  I  thought  there  was  something 
of  the  hang-dog  look  about  him.  I  should  certainly  not 
trust  him,  and  I’m  afraid  he  might  compromise  the 
others.  Why  are  they  friendly,  I  wonder.  He  is  prob¬ 
ably  not  even  a  comrade.  The  Allegheny  Anarchists 
should  have  nothing  in  common  with  him.  It  is  not 
well  for  us  to  associate  with  the  bourgeois- minded. 

My  meditation  is  interrupted  by  a  guard,  who 
informs  me  that  I  am  “wanted  at  the  office.”  There  is 
a  letter  for  me,  but  some  postage  is  due  on  it.  Would 
I  pay? 

“A  trap,”  it  flits  through  my  mind,  as  I  accompany 
the  overseer.  I  shall  persist  in  my  refusal  to  accept 
decoy  mail. 

“More  letters  from  Homestead?”  I  turn  to  the 
Warden. 

He  quickly  suppresses  a  smile.  “No,  it  is  post¬ 
marked,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.” 

I  glance  at  the  envelope.  The  writing  is  apparently 
a  woman’s,  but  the  chirography  is  smaller  than  the  Girl’s. 
I  yearn  for  news  of  her.  The  letter  is  from  Brooklyn 
— perhaps  a  Deckadresse! 

“I’ll  take  the  letter,  Warden.” 

“All  right.  You  will  open  it  here.” 

“Then  I  don’t  want  it.” 

I  start  from  the  office,  when  the  Warden  detains  me: 

“Take  the  letter  along,  but  within  ten  minutes  you 
must  return  it  to  me.  You  may  go  now.” 

I  hasten  to  the  cell.  If  there  is  anything  important 
in  the  letter,  I  shall  destroy  it:  I  owe  the  enemy  no 


THE  JAIL 


71 


obligations.  As  with  trembling  hand  I  tear  open  the 
envelope,  a  paper  dollar  flutters  to  the  floor.  I  glance 
at  the  signature,  but  the  name  is  unfamiliar.  Anxiously 
I  scan  the  lines.  An  unknown  sympathizer  sends  greet¬ 
ings,  in  the  name  of  humanity.  “I  am  not  an  Anarchist,” 
I  read,  “but  I  wish  you  well.  My  sympathy,  however, 
is  with  the  man,  not  with  the  act.  I  cannot  justify  your 
attempt.  Life,  human  life,  especially,  is  sacred.  None 
has  the  right  to  take  what  he  cannot  give.” 

I  pass  a  troubled  night.  My  mind  struggles  with 
the  problem  presented  so  unexpectedly.  Can  any  one 
understanding  my  motives,  doubt  the  justification  of  the 
Attentat?  The  legal  aspect  aside,  can  the  morality  of 
the  act  be  questioned?  It  is  impossible  to  confound 
law  with  right ;  they  are  opposites.  The  law  is  immoral : 
it  is  the  conspiracy  of  rulers  and  priests  against  the 
workers,  to  continue  their  subjection.  To  be  law- 
abiding  means  to  acquiesce,  if  not  directly  participate, 
in  that  conspiracy.  A  revolutionist  is  the  truly  moral 
-^mian :  to  him  the  interests  of  humanity  are  supreme ; 
to  advance  them,  his  sole  aim  in  life.  Government,  with 
its  laws,  is  the  common  enemy.  All  weapons  are  justi¬ 
fiable  in  the  noble  struggle  of  the  People  against  this 
terrible  curse.  The  Law !  It  is  the  arch-crime  of  the 
centuries.  The  path  of  Man  is  soaked  with  the  blood  it 
has  shed.  Can  this  great  criminal  determine  Right?  Is 
a  revolutionist  to  respect  such  a  travesty?  It  would 
mean  the  perpetuation  of  human  slavery. 

No,  the  revolutionist  owes  no  duty  to  capitalist 
morality.  He  is  the  soldier  of  humanity.  He  has  con¬ 
secrated  his  life  to  the  People  in  their  great  struggle. 
It  is  a  bitter  war.  The  revolutionist  cannot  shrink  from 
the  service  it  imposes  upon  him.  Aye,  even  the  duty 
of  death.  Cheerfully  and  joyfully  he  would  die  a 


72  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


thousand  times  to  hasten  the  triumph  of  liberty.  His 
life  belongs  to  the  People.  He  has  no  right  to  live  or 
enjoy  while  others  suffer. 

How  often  we  had  discussed  this,  Fedya  and  I.  He 
was  somewhat  inclined  to  sybaritism;  not  quite  eman¬ 
cipated  from  the  tendencies  of  his  bourgeois  youth. 
Once  in  New  York — I  shall  never  forget — at  the  time 
when  our  circle  had  just  begun  the  publication  of  the 
first  Jewish  Anarchist  paper  in  America,  we  came  to 
blows.  We,  the  most  intimate  friends;  yes,  actually 
came  to  blows.  Nobody  would  have  believed  it.  They 
used  to  call  us  the  Twins.  If  I  happened  to  appear 
anywhere  alone,  they  would  inquire,  anxiously,  “What 
is  the  matter  ?  Is  your  chum  sick  ?”  It  was  so  unusual ; 
we  were  each  other’s  shadow.  But  one  day  I  struck 
him.  He  had  outraged  my  most  sacred  feelings:  to 
spend  twenty  cents  for  a  meal !  It  was  not  mere 
extravagance;  it  was  positively  a  crime,  incredible  in  a 
revolutionist.  I  could  not  forgive  him  for  months. 
Even  now, — two  years  have  passed, — yet  a  certain 
feeling  of  resentment  still  remains  with  me.  What  right 
had  a  revolutionist  to  such  self-indulgence?  The 
movement  needed  aid;  every  cent  was  valuable.  To 
spend  twenty  cents  for  a  single  meal !  He  was  a  traitor 
to  the  Cause.  True,  it  was  his  first  meal  in  two  days, 
and  we  were  economizing  on  rent  by  sleeping  in  the 
parks.  He  had  worked  hard,  too,  to  earn  the  money. 
But  he  should  have  known  that  he  had  no  right  to  his 
earnings  while  the  movement  stood  in  such  need  of 
funds.  His  defence  was  unspeakably  aggravating:  he 
had  earned  ten  dollars  that  week — he  had  given  seven 
into  the  paper’s  treasury — he  needed  three  dollars  for 
his  week’s  expenses- — his  shoes  were  torn,  too.  I  had 
no  patience  with  such  arguments.  They  merely  proved 


THE  JAIL 


73 


his  bourgeois  predilections.  Personal  comforts  could  not 
be  of  any  consideration  to  a  true  revolutionist.  It  was 
a  question  of  the  movement;  its  needs,  the  first  issue. 
Every  penny  spent  for  ourselves  was  so  .much  taken 
from  the  Cause.  True,  the  revolutionist  must  live. 
But  luxury  is  a  crime;  worse,  a  weakness.  One  could 
exist  on  five  cents  a  day.  Twenty  cents  for  a  single 
meal !  Incredible.  It  was  robbery. 

Poor  Twin!  He  was  deeply  grieved,  but  he  knew 
that  I  was  merely  just.  The  revolutionist  has  no  per¬ 
sonal  right  to  anything.  Everything  he  has  or  earns 
belongs  to  the  Cause.  Everything,  even  his  affections. 
Indeed,  these  especially.  He  must  not  become  too  much 
attached  to  anything.  He  should  guard  against  strong 
love  or  passion.  The  People  should  be  his  only  great 
love,  his  supreme  passion.  Mere  human  sentiment  is 
unworthy  of  the  real  revolutionist :  he  lives  for  humanity, 
and  he  must  ever  be  ready  to  respond  to  its  call.  The 
soldier  of  Revolution  must  not  be  lured  from  the  field 
of  battle  by  the  siren  song  of  love.  Great  danger  lurks 
in  such  weakness.  The  Russian  tyrant  has  frequently 
attempted  to  bait  his  prey  with  a  beautiful  woman. 
Our  comrades  there  are  careful  not  to  associate  with 
any  woman,  except  of  proved  revolutionary  character. 
Aye,  her  mere  passive  interest  in  the  Cause  is  not 
sufficient.  Love  may  transform  her  into  a  Delilah  to 
shear  one’s  strength.  Only  with  a  woman  consecrated 
to  active  participation  may  the  revolutionist  associate. 
Their  perfect  comradeship  would  prove  a  mutual  inspira¬ 
tion,  a  source  of  increased  strength.  Equals,  thoroughly 
solidaric,  they  would  the  more  successfully  serve  the 
Cause  of  the  People.  Countless  Russian  women  bear 
witness — Sophia  Perovskaya,  Vera  Figner,  Zassulitch, 
and  many  other  heroic  martyrs,  tortured  in  the 
casemates  of  Schlusselburg,  buried  alive  in  the  Petro- 


7 4  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


pavjovka.  What  devotion,  what  fortitude !  Perfect 
comrades  they  were,  often  stronger  than  the  men. 
Brave,  noble  women  that  fill  the  prisons  and  etapes, 
tramp  the  toilsome  road.  .  .  . 

The  Siberian  steppe  rises  before  me.  Its  broad 
expanse  shimmers  in  the  sun’s  rays,  and  blinds  the  eye 
with  white  brilliancy.  The  endless  monotony  agonizes 
the  sight,  and  stupefies  the  brain.  It  breathes  the  chill 
of  death  into  the  heart,  and  grips  the  soul  with  the 
terror  of  madness.  In  vain  the  eye  seeks  relief  from 
the  white  Monster  that  slowly  tightens  his  embrace,  and 
threatens  to  swallow  you  in  his  frozen  depth.  .  .  . 
There,  in  the  distance,  where  the  blue  meets  the  white,  a 
heavy  line  of  crimson  dyes  the  surface.  It  winds  along 
the  virgin  bosom,  grows  redder  and  deeper,  and  ascends 
the  mountain  in  a  dark  ribbon,  twining  and  wreathing 
its  course  in  lengthening  pain,  now  disappearing  in  the 
hollow,  and  again  rising  on  the  height.  Behold  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hand  in  hand,  their  heads  bent,  on  their 
shoulders  a  heavy  cross,  slowly  toiling  the  upward  way, 
and  behind  them  others,  men  and  women,  young  and 
old,  all  weary  with  the  heavy  task,  trudging  along  the 
dismal  desert,  amid  death  and  silence,  save  for  the 
mournful  clank,  clank  of  the  chains.  .  .  . 

“Get  out  now.  Exercise!” 

As  in  a  dream  I  walk  along  the  gallery.  The  voice 
of  my  exercise  mate  sounds  dully  in  my  ears.  I  do 
not  understand  what  he  is  saying.  Does  he  know  about 
the  Nihilists,  I  wonder? 

“Billy,  have  you  ever  read  anything  about  Nihilists  ?” 

“Sure,  Berk.  When  I  dope  my  last  bit  in  the 
dump  below,  a  guy  lent  me  a  book.  A  corker,  too,  it 
was.  Let’s  see,  what  you  call  ’em  again?” 

“Nihilists.” 


THE  JAIL  75 

“Yes,  sure.  About  some  Nihirists.  The  book’s 
called  Aivan  Strodjoff.” 

“What  was  the  name?” 

“Somethin’  like  that.  Aivan  Strodjoff  or  Strogoff.” 

“Oh,  you  mean  Ivan  Strogov,  don’t  you?” 

“That’s  it.  Funny  names  them  foreigners  have.  A 
fellow  needs  a  cast-iron  jaw  to  say  it  every  day.  But 
the  story  was  a  corker  all  right.  About  a  Rooshan 
patriot  or  something.  He  was  hot  stuff,  I  tell  you. 
Overheard  a  plot  to  kill  th’  king  by  them  fellows — er — 
what’s  you  call  ’em?” 

“Nihilists?” 

“Yep.  Nihilist  plot,  you  know.  Well,  they  wants  to 
kill  his  Nibs  and  all  the  dookes,  to  make  one  of  their 
own  crowd  king.  See?  Foxy  fellows,  you  bet.  But 
Aivan  was  too  much  for  ’em.  He  plays  detective.  Gets 
in  all  kinds  of  scrapes,  and  some  one  burns  his  eyes 
out.  But  he’s  game.  I  don’t  remember  how  it  all  ends, 
but—” 

“I  know  the  story.  It’s  trash.  It  doesn’t  tell  the 
truth  about — ” 

“Oh,  t’hell  with  it!  Say,  Berk,  d’ye  think  they’ll 
hang  me?  Won’t  the  judge  sympathize  with  a  blind 
man?  Look  at  me  eyes.  Pretty  near  blind,  swear  to 
God,  I  am.  Won’t  hang  a  blind  man,  will  they?” 

The  pitiful  appeal  goes  to  my  heart,  and  I  assure 
him  they  will  not  hang  a  blind  man.  His  eyes  brighten, 
his  face  grows  radiant  with  hope. 

Why  does  he  love  life  so,  I  wonder.  Of  what  value 
is  it  without  a  high  purpose,  uninspired  by  revolutionary 
ideals?  He  is  small  and  cowardly:  he  lies  to  save  his 
neck.  There  is  nothing  at  all  wrong  with  his  eyes.  But 
why  should  I  lie  for  his  sake? 

My  conscience  smites  me  for  the  moment  of  weak- 


76  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


ness.  I  should  not  allow  inane  sentimentality  to  influ¬ 
ence  me :  it  is  beneath  the  revolutionist. 

“Billy,”  I  say  with  some  asperity,  “many  innocent 
people  have  been  hanged.  The  Nihilists,  for  instance — ” 

“Oh,  damn  ’em !  What  do  /  care  about  ’em !  Will 
they  hang  me,  that’s  what  I  want  to  know.” 

“May  be  they  will,”  I  reply,  irritated  at  the  profana¬ 
tion  of  my  ideal.  A  look  of  terror  spreads  over  his 
face.  His  eyes  are  fastened  upon  me,  his  lips  parted. 
“Yes,”  I  continue,  “perhaps  they  will  hang  you.  Many 
innocent  men  have  suffered  such  a  fate.  I  don’t  think 
you  are  innocent,  either;  nor  blind.  You  don’t  need 
those  glasses;  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  your 
eyes.  Now  understand,  Billy,  I  don’t  want  them  to 
hang  you.  I  don’t  believe  in  hanging.  But  I  must  tell 
you  the  truth,  and  you’d  better  be  ready  for  the  worst.” 

Gradually  the  look  of  fear  fades  from  his  face.  Rage 
suffuses  his  cheeks  with  spots  of  dark  red. 

“You’re  crazy !  What’s  the  use  talkin’  to  you,  any¬ 
how?  You  are  a  damn  Anarchist.  I’m  a  good  Catholic, 
I  want  you  to  know  that!  I  haven’t  always  did  right, 
but  the  good  father  confessed  me  last  week.  I’m  no 
damn  murderer  like  you,  see?  It  was  an  accident.  I’m 
pretty  near  blind,  and  this  is  a  Christian  country,  thank 
God !  They  won’t  hang  a  blind  man.  Don’t  you  ever 
talk  to  me  again !” 


XI 

The  days  and  weeks  pass  in  wearying  monotony, 
broken  only  by  my  anxiety  about  the  approaching  trial. 
It  is  part  of  the  designed  cruelty  to  keep  me  ignorant 
of  the  precise  date.  “Hold  yourself  ready. .  You  may 
be  called  any  time,”  the  Warden  had  said.  But  the 


THE  JAIL 


77 


shadows  are  lengthening,  the  days  come  and  go,  and 
still  my  name  has  not  appeared  on  the  court  calendar. 
Why  this  torture?  Let  me  have  over  with  it.  My 
mission  is  almost  accomplished, — the  explanation  in 
court,  and  then  my  life  is  done.  I  shall  never  again 
have  an  opportunity  to  work  for  the  Cause.  I  may 
therefore  leave  the  world.  I  should  die  content,  but  for 
the  partial  failure  of  my  plans.  The  bitterness  of  dis¬ 
appointment  is  gnawing  at  my  heart.  Yet  why?  The 
physical  results  of  my  act  cannot  affect  its  propagandistic 
value.  Why,  then,  these  regrets?  I  should  rise  above 
them.  But  the  gibes  of  officers  and  prisoners  wound 
me.  “Bad  shot,  ain’t  you?”  They  do  not  dream  how 
keen  their  thoughtless  thrusts.  I  smile  and  try  to  appear 
indifferent,  while  my  heart  bleeds.  Why  should  I,  the 
revolutionist,  be  moved  by  such  remarks?  It  is  weak¬ 
ness.  They  are  so  far  beneath  me ;  they  live  in  the 
swamp  of  their  narrow  personal  interests;  they  cannot 
understand.  And  yet  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  may 
reach  the  eagle’s  aerie,  and  disturb  the  peace  of  the 
heights. 

The  “trusty”  passes  along  the  gallery.  He  walks 
slowly,  dusting  the  iron  railing,  then  turns  to  give  my 
door  a  few  light  strokes  with  the  cat-o’-many-tails. 
Leaning  against  the  outer  wall,  he  stoops  low,  pretending 
to  wipe  the  doorsill, — there  is  a  quick  movement  of  his 
hand,  and  a  little  roll  of  white  is  shot  between  the  lower 
bars,  falling  at  my  feet.  “A  stiff,”  he  whispers. 

Indifferently  I  pick  up  the  note.  I  know  no  one  in 
the  jail;  it  is  probably  some  poor  fellow  asking  for 
cigarettes.  Placing  the  roll  between  the  pages  of  a 
newspaper,  I  am  surprised  to  find  it  in  German. 
From  whom  can  it  be?  I  turn  to  the  signature.  Carl 
Nold  ?  It’s  impossible ;  it’s  a  trap !  No,  but  that 


78  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


handwriting, — I  could  not  mistake  it:  the  small,  clear 
chirography  is  undoubtedly  Nold’s.  But  how  did  he 
smuggle  in  this  note?  I  feel  the  blood  rush  to  my  head 
as  my  eye  flits  over  the  penciled  lines :  Bauer  and  he  are 
arrested;  they  are  in  the  jail  now,  charged  with  con¬ 
spiracy  to  kill  Frick;  detectives  swore  they  met  them  in 
my  company,  in  front  of  the  Frick  office  building.  They 
have  engaged  a  lawyer,  the  note  runs  on.  Would  I 
accept  his  services?  I  probably  have  no  money,  and  I 
shouldn’t  expect  any  from  New  York,  because  Most — 
what’s  this? — because  Most  has  repudiated  the  act — 

The  gong  tolls  the  exercise  hour.  With  difficulty 
I  walk  to  the  gallery.  I  feel  feverish :  my  feet  drag 
heavily,  and  I  stumble  against  the  railing. 

“Is  yo  sick,  Ahlick?”  It  must  be  the  negro’s  voice. 
My  throat  is  dry ;  my  lips  refuse  to  move.  Hazily  I  see 
the  guard  approach.  He  walks  me  to  the  cell,  and  lowers 
the  berth.  “You  may  lie  down.”  The  lock  clicks,  and 
I’m  alone. 

The  line  marches  past,  up  and  down,  up  and  down. 
The  regular  footfall  beats  against  my  brain  like  hammer 
strokes.  When  will  they  stop?  My  head  aches  dread¬ 
fully — I  am  glad  I  don’t  have  to  walk — it  was  good  of 
the  negro  to  call  the  guard — I  felt  so  sick.  What  was  it? 
Oh,  the  note!  Where  is  it? 

The  possibility  of  loss  dismays  me.  Hastily  I  pick 
the  newspaper  up  from  the  floor.  With  trembling  hands 
I  turn  the  leaves.  Ah,  it’s  here !  If  I  had  not  found  it, 
I  vaguely  wonder,  were  the  thing  mere  fancy? 

The  sight  of  the  crumpled  paper  fills  me  with  dread. 
Nold  and  Bauer  here !  Perhaps — if  they  act  discreetly — 
all  will  be  well.  They  are  innocent;  they  can  prove 
it.  But  Most!  How  can  it  be  possible?  Of  course, 
he  was  displeased  when  I  began  to  associate  with  the 


THE  JAIL 


79 


autonomists.  But  how  can  that  make  any  difference? 
At  such  a  time!  What  matter  personal  likes  and  dis¬ 
likes  to  a  revolutionist,  to  a  Most — the  hero  of  my  first 
years  in  America,  the  name  that  stirred  my  soul  in  that 
little  library  in  Kovno — Most,  the  Bridge  of  Liberty! 
My  teacher — the  author  of  the  Krie g swiss enschaft — 
the  ideal  revolutionist — he  to  denounce  me,  to  repudiate 
propaganda  by  deed? 

It’s  incredible !  I  cannot  believe  it.  The  Girl  will  not 
fail  to  write  to  me  about  it.  I’ll  wait  till  I  hear  from 
her.  But,  then,  Nold  is  himself  a  great  admirer  of 
Most;  he  would  not  say  anything  derogatory,  unless 
fully  convinced  that  it  is  true.  Yet — it  is  barely  con¬ 
ceivable.  How  explain  such  a  change  in  Most?  To 
forswear  his  whole  past,  his  glorious  past!  He  was 
always  so  proud  of  it,  and  of  his  extreme  revolu¬ 
tionism.  Some  tremendous  motive  must  be  back  of  such 
apostasy.  It  has  no  parallel  in  Anarchist  annals.  But 
what  can  it  be?  How  boldly  he  acted  during  the  Hay- 
market  tragedy — publicly  advised  the  use  of  violence  to 
avenge  the  capitalist  conspiracy.  He  must  have  realized 
the  danger  of  the  speech  for  which  he  was  later  doomed 
to  Blackwell’s  Island.  I  remember  his  defiant  manner 
on  the  way  to  prison.  How  I  admired  his  strong  spirit, 
as  I  accompanied  him  on  the  last  ride!  That  was  only 
a  little  over  a  year  ago,  and  he  is  just  out  a  few  months. 
Perhaps — is  it  possible?  A  coward?  Has  that  prison 
experience  influenced  his  present  attitude?  Why,  it  is 
terrible  to  think  of.  Most — a  coward?  He  who  has 
devoted  his  entire  life  to  the  Cause,  sacrificed  his  seat  in 
the  Reichstag  because  of  uncompromising  honesty,  stood 
in  the  forefront  all  his  life,  faced  peril  and  danger, — 
he  a  coward?  Yet,  it  is  impossible  that  he  should  have 
suddenly  altered  the  views  of  a  lifetime.  What  could 
have  prompted  his  denunciation  of  my  act?  Personal 


8o 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


dislike?  No,  that  was  a  matter  of  petty  jealousy.  His 
confidence  in  me,  as  a  revolutionist,  was  unbounded. 
Did  he  not  issue  a  secret  circular  letter  to  aid  my  plans 
concerning  Russia?  That  was  proof  of  absolute  faith. 
One  could  not  change  his  opinion  so  suddenly.  More¬ 
over,  it  can  have  no  bearing  on  his  repudiation  of  a 
terrorist  act.  I  can  find  no  explanation,  unless — can  it 
be? — fear  of  personal  consequences.  Afraid  he  might 
be  held  responsible,  perhaps.  Such  a  possibility  is  not 
excluded,  surely.  The  enemy  hates  him  bitterly,  and 
would  welcome  an  opportunity,  would  even  conspire,  to 
hang  him.  But  that  is  the  price  one  pays  for  his  love 
of  humanity.  Every  revolutionist  is  exposed  to  this 
danger.  Most  especially;  his  whole  career  has  been  a 
duel  with  tyranny.  But  he  was  never  before  influenced 
by  such  considerations.  Is  he  not  prepared  to  take  the 
responsibility  for  his  terrorist  propaganda,  the  work  of 
his  whole  life?  Why  has  he  suddenly  been  stricken  with 
fear?  Can  it  be?  Can  it  be?  .  .  . 

My  soul  is  in  the  throes  of  agonizing  doubt.  Despair 
grips  my  heart,  as  I  hesitatingly  admit  to  myself  the 
probable  truth.  But  it  cannot  be;  Nold  has  made  a  mis¬ 
take.  May  be  the  letter  is  a  trap ;  it  was  not  written  by 
Carl.  But  I  know  his  hand  so  well.  It  is  his,  his !  Per¬ 
haps  I’ll  have  a  letter  in  the  morning.  The  Girl — she  is 
the  only  one  I  can  trust — she’ll  tell  me — 

My  head  feels  heavy.  Wearily  I  lie  on  the  bed. 
Perhaps  to-morrow  ...  a  letter  .  .  . 


XII 

“Your  pards  are  here.  Do  you  want  to  see  them?” 
the  Warden  asks. 

“What  ‘pards’  ?” 


THE  JAIL 


81 


‘‘Your  partners,  Bauer  and  Nold.” 

“My  comrades,  you  mean.  I  have  no  partners.” 

“Same  thing.  Want  to  see  them?  Their  lawyers 
are  here.” 

“Yes,  I’ll  see  them.” 

Of  course,  I  myself  need  no  defence.  I  will  conduct 
my  own  case,  and  explain  my  act.  But  I  shall  be  glad 
to  meet  my  comrades.  I  wonder  how  they  feel  about 
their  arrest, — perhaps  they  are  inclined  to  blame  me. 
And  what  is  their  attitude  toward  my  deed?  If  they  side 
with  Most — 

My  senses  are  on  the  alert  as  the  guard  accompanies 
me  into  the  hall.  Near  the  wall,  seated  at  a  small  table, 
I  behold  Nold  and  Bauer.  Two  other  men  are  with 
them;  their  attorneys,  I  suppose.  All  eyes  scrutinize  me 
curiously,  searchingly.  Nold  advances  toward  me.  His 
manner  is  somewhat  nervous,  a  look  of  intense  serious¬ 
ness  in  his  heavy-browed  eyes.  He  grasps  my  hand. 
The  pressure  is  warm,  intimate,  as  if  he  yearns  to  pour 
boundless  confidence  into  my  heart.  For  a  moment  a 
wave  of  thankfulness  overwhelms  me :  I  long  to  embrace 
him.  But  curious  eyes  bore  into  me.  I  glance  at  Bauer. 
There  is  a  cheerful  smile  on  the  good-natured,  ruddy 
face.  The  guard  pushes  a  chair  toward  the  table,  and 
leans  against  the  railing.  His  presence  constrains  me : 
he  will  report  to  the  Warden  everything  said. 

I  am  introduced  to  the  lawyers.  The  contrast  in 
their  appearance  suggests  a  lifetime  of  legal  wrangling. 
The  younger  man,  evidently  a  recent  graduate,  is  quick, 
alert,  and  talkative.  There  is  an  air  of  anxious 
expectancy  about  him,  wlith  a  look  of  Semitic  shrewd¬ 
ness  in  the  long,  narrow  face.  He  enlarges  upon  the 
kind  consent  of  his  distinguished  colleague  to  take 
charge  of  my  case.  His  demeanor  toward  the  elder 


82  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


lawyer  is  deeply  respectful,  almost  reverential.  The 
latter  looks  bored,  and  is  silent. 

“Do  you  wish  to  say  something,  Colonel?”  the  young 
lawyer  suggests. 

“Nothing.” 

He  ejects  the  monosyllable  sharply,  brusquely.  His 
colleague  looks  abashed,  like  a  schoolboy  caught  in  a 
naughty  act. 

“You,  Mr.  Berkman?”  he  asks. 

I  thank  them  for  their  interest  in  my  case.  But  I 
need  no  defence,  I  explain,  since  I  do  not  consider  my¬ 
self  guilty.  I  am  exclusively  concerned  in  making  a 
public  statement  in  the  courtroom.  If  I  am  represented 
by  an  attorney,  I  should  be  deprived  of  the  opportunity. 
Yet  it  is  most  vital  to  clarify  to  the  People  the  purpose 
of  my  act,  the  circumstances — 

The  heavy  breathing  opposite  distracts  me.  I  glance 
at  the  Colonel.  His  eyes  are  closed,  and  from  the  parted 
lips  there  issues  the  regular  respiration  of  sound  sleep. 
A  look  of  mild  dismay  crosses  the  young  lawyer’s  face. 
He  rises  with  an  apologetic  smile. 

“You  are  tired,  Colonel.  It’s  awfully  close  here.” 

“Let  us  go,”  the  Colonel  replies. 

Depressed  I  return  to  the  cell.  The  old  lawyer, — 
how  little  my  explanation  interested  him !  He  fell 
asleep!  Why,  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  an  issue 
that  involves  the  welfare  of  the  world!  I  was  so  happy 
at  the  opportunity  to  elucidate  my  motives  to  intelligent 
Americans, — and  he  was  sleeping!  The  young  lawyer, 
too,  is  disgusting,  with  his  air  of  condescending  pity 
toward  one  who  “will  have  a  fool  for  a  client,”  as  he 
characterized  my  decision  to  conduct  my  own  case.  He 
may  think  such  a  course  suicidal.  Perhaps  it  is,  in  re¬ 
gard  to  consequences.  But  the  length  of  the  sentence 


THE  JAIL 


83 


is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me :  I’ll  die  soon,  anyway. 
The  only  thing  of  importance  now  is  my  explanation. 
And  that  man  fell  asleep!  Perhaps  he  considers  me  a 
criminal.  But  what  can  I  expect  of  a  lawyer,  when  even 
the  steel-worker  could  not  understand  my  act?  Most 
himself — 

With  the  name,  I  recollect  the  letters  the  guard  had 
given  me  during  the  interview.  There  are  three  of 
them;  one  from  the  Girl!  At  last!  Why  did  she  not 
write  before?  They  must  have  kept  the  letter  in  the 
office.  Yes,  the  postmark  is  a  week  old.  She’ll  tell  me 
about  Most, — but  what  is  the  use?  I’m  sure  of  it  now; 
I  read  it  plainly  in  Nold’s  eyes.  It’s  all  true.  But  I 
must  see  what  she  writes. 

How  every  line  breathes  her  devotion  to  the  Cause! 
She  is  the  real  Russian  woman  revolutionist.  Her  letter 
is  full  of  bitterness  against  the  attitude  of  Most  and 
his  lieutenants  in  the  German  and  Jewish  Anarchist 
circles,  but  she  writes  words  of  cheer  and  encourage¬ 
ment  in  my  imprisonment.  She  refers  to  the  financial 
difficulties  of  the  little  commune  consisting  of  Fedya, 
herself,  and  one  or  two  other  comrades,  and  closes  with 
the  remark  that,  fortunately,  I  need  no  money  for  legal 
defence  or  attorneys. 

The  staunch  Girl !  She  and  Fedya  are,  after  all,  the 
only  true  revolutionists  I  know  in  our  ranks.  The  others 
all  possess  some  weakness.  I  could  not  rely  on  them. 
The  German  comrades, — they  are  heavy,  phlegmatic ; 
they  lack  the  enthusiasm  of  Russia.  I  wonder  how  they 
ever  produced  a  Reinsdorf.  *  Well,  he  is  the  exception. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  expected  from  the  German  move¬ 
ment,  excepting  perhaps  the  autonomists.  But  they  are 
a  mere  handful,  quite  insignificant,  kept  alive  mainly  by 
the  Most  and  Peukert  feud.  Peukert,  too,  the  life  of 


84  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


their  circle,  is  chiefly  concerned  with  his  personal  re¬ 
habilitation.  Quite  natural,  of  course.  A  terrible  injus¬ 
tice  has  been  done  him.*  It  is  remarkable  that  the  false 
accusations  have  not  driven  him  into  obscurity.  There 
is  great  perseverance,  aye,  moral  courage  of  no  mean 
order,  in  his  survival  in  the  movement.  It  was  that 
which  first  awakened  my  interest  in  him.  Most’s  ex¬ 
planation,  full  of  bitter  invective,  suggested  hostile  per¬ 
sonal  feeling.  What  a  tremendous  sensation  I  created 
at  the  first  Jewish  Anarchist  Conference  by  demanding 
that  the  charges  against  Peukert  be  investigated!  The 
result  entirely  failed  to  substantiate  the  accusations.  But 
the  Mostianer  were  not  convinced,  blinded  by  the  vitu¬ 
perative  eloquence  of  Most.  And  now  .  .  .  now,  again, 
they  will  follow,  as  blindly.  To  be  sure,  they  will  not 
dare  take  open  stand  against  my  act;  not  the  Jewish 
comrades,  at  least.  After  all,  the  fire  of  Russia  still 
smolders  in  their  hearts.  But  Most’s  attitude  toward 
me  will  influence  them :  it  will  dampen  their  enthusiasm, 
and  thus  react  on  the  propaganda.  The  burden  of 
making  agitation  through  my  act  will  fall  on  the  Girl’s 
shoulders.  She  will  stand  a  lone  soldier  in  the  field. 
She  will  exert  her  utmost  efforts,  I  am  convinced.  But 
she  will  stand  alone.  Fedya  will  also  remain  loyal.  But 
what  can  he  do?  He  is  not  a  speaker.  Nor  the  rest 
of  the  commune  circle.  And  Most?  We  had  all  been 
so  intimate.  .  .  .  It’s  his  cursed  jealousy,  and  cowardice, 
too.  Yes,  mostly  cowardice — he  can’t  be  jealous  of  me 


*  Joseph  Peukert,  at  one  time  a  leading  Anarchist  of  Austria, 
was  charged  with  betraying  the  German  Anarchist  Neve  into  the 
hands  of  the  police.  Neve  was  sentenced  to  ten  years’  prison. 
Peukert  always  insisted  that  the  accusation  against  him  originated 
with  some  of  his  political  enemies  among  the  Socialists.  It  is 
certain  that  the  arrest  of  Neve  was  not  due  to  calculated 
treachery  on  the  part  of  Peukert,  but  rather  to  indiscretion. 


THE  JAIL 


85 


now!  He  recently  left  prison, — it  must  have  terrorized 
him.  The  weakling !  He  will  minimize  the  effect  of  my 
act,  perhaps  paralyze  its  propagandistic  influence  alto¬ 
gether.  .  .  .  Now  I  stand  alone — except  for  the  Girl 
— quite  alone.  It  is  always  so.  Was  not  “he”  alone, 
my  beloved,  “unknown”  Grinevitzky,  isolated,  scorned 
by  his  comrades?  But  his  bomb  .  .  .  how  it  thun¬ 
dered.  .  .  . 

I  wTas  just  a  boy  then.  Let  me  see, — it  was  in  1881. 
I  was  about  eleven  years  old.  The  class  was  assembling 
after  the  noon  recess.  I  had  barely  settled  in  my  seat, 
when  the  teacher  called  me  forward.  His  long  pointer 
was  dancing  a  fanciful  figure  on  the  gigantic  map  of 
Russia. 

“What  province  is  that?”  he  demanded. 

“Astrakhan.’* 

“Mention  its  chief  products.” 

Products?  The  name  Chernishevsky  flitted  through 
my  mind.  He  was  in  Astrakhan, — I  heard  Maxim  tell 
mother  so  at  dinner.  . 

“Nihilists,”  I  burst  out. 

The  boys  tittered;  some  laughed  aloud.  The  teacher 
grew  purple.  He  struck  the  pointer  violently  on  the 
floor,  shivering  the  tapering  end.  Suddenly  there  broke 
a  roll  of  thunder.  One — two —  With  a  terrific  crash, 
the  window  panes  fell  upon  the  desks ;  the  floor  shook 
beneath  our  feet.  The  room  was  hushed.  Deathly  pale, 
the  teacher  took  a  step  toward  the  window,  but  hastily 
turned,  and  dashed  from  the  room.  The  pupils  rushed 
after  him.  I  wondered  at  the  air  of  fear  and  suspicion 
on  the  streets.  At  home  every  one  spoke  in  subdued 
tones.  Father  looked  at  mother  severely,  reproachfully, 
and  Maxim  was  unusually  silent,  but  his  face  seemed 
radiant,  an  unwonted  brilliancy  in  his  eye.  At  night, 
alone  with  me  in  the  dormitory,  he  rushed  to  my  bed, 


86  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


knelt  at  my  side,  and  threw  his  arms  around  me  and 
kissed  me,  and  cried,  and  kissed  me.  His  wildness 
frightened  me.  “What  is  it,  Maximotchka?”  I  breathed 
softly.  He  ran  up  and  down  the  room,  kissing  me  and 
murmuring,  “Glorious,  glorious!  Victory!” 

Between  sobs,  solemnly  pledging  me  to  secrecy,  he 
whispered  mysterious,  awe-inspiring  words :  Will  of  the 
People — tyrant  removed — Free  Russia.  .  .  . 

XIII 

The  nights  overwhelm  me  with  the  sense  of  solitude. 
Life  is  so  remote,  so  appallingly  far  away — it  has  aban¬ 
doned  me  in  this  desert  of  silence.  The  distant  puffing 
of  fire  engines,  the  shrieking  of  river  sirens,  accentuate 
my  loneliness.  Yet  it  feels  so  near,  this  monster  Life, 
huge,  palpitating  with  vitality,  intent  upon  its  wonted 
course.  How  unmindful  of  myself,  flung  into  the  dark¬ 
ness, — like  a  furnace  spark  belched  forth  amid  fire  and 
smoke  into  the  blackness  of  night. 

The  monster!  Its  eyes  are  implacable;  they  watch 
every  gate  of  life.  Every  approach  they  guard,  lest 
I  enter  back — I  and  the  others  here.  Poor  unfortunates, 
how  irritated  and  nervous  they  are  growing  as  their 
trial  day  draws  near!  There  is  a  hunted  look  in  their 
eyes;  their  faces  are  haggard  and  anxious.  They  walk 
weakly,  haltingly,  worn  with  the  long  days  of  waiting. 
Only  “Blackie,”  the  young  negro,  remains  cheerful.  But 
I  often  miss  the  broad  smile  on  the  kindly  face.  I  am 
sure  his  eyes  were  moist  when  the  three  Italians  returned 
from  court  this  morning.  They  had  been  sentenced  to 
death.  Joe,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  walked  to  the  cell  with 
a  firm  step.  His  brother  Pasquale  passed  us  with  both 
hands  over  his  face,  weeping  silently.  But  the  old  man, 


THE  JAIL 


87 


their  father — as  he  was  crossing  the  hallway,  we  saw 
him  suddenly  stop.  For  a  moment  he  swayed,  then 
lurched  forward,  his  head  striking  the  iron  railing,  his 
body  falling  limp  to  the  floor.  By  the  arms  the  guards 
dragged  him  up  the  stairway,  his  legs  hitting  the  stone 
with  a  dull  thud,  the  fresh  crimson  spreading  over  his 
white  hair,  a  glassy  torpor  in  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
stood  upright.  His  head  thrown  back,  his  arms  up¬ 
raised,  he  cried  hoarsely,  anguished,  “O  Santa  Maria ! 
Sio  innocente,  inno — ” 

The  guard  swung  his  club.  The  old  man  reeled  and 
fell. 

“Ready!  Death-watch !”  shouted  the  Warden. 

“In-no-cente  !  Death-watch  !”  mocked  the  echo  under 
the  roof. 

The  old  man  haunts  my  days.  I  hear  the  agonized 
cry ;  its  black  despair  chills  my  marrow.  Exercise  hour 
has  become  insupportable.  The  prisoners  irritate  me: 
each  is  absorbed  in  his  own  case.  The  deadening 
monotony  of  the  jail  routine  grows  unbearable.  The  con¬ 
stant  cruelty  and  brutality  is  harrowing.  I  wish  it  were 
all  over.  The  uncertainty  of  my  trial  day  is  a  ceaseless 
torture.  I  have  been  waiting  now  almost  two  months. 
My  court  speech  is  prepared.  I  could  die  now,  but  they 
would  suppress  my  explanation,  and  the  People  thus 
remain  ignorant  of  my  aim  and  purpose.  I  owe  it  to  • 
the  Cause — and  to  the  true  comrades — to  stay  on  the 
scene  till  after  the  trial.  There  is  nothing  more  to  bind 
me  to  life.  With  the  speech,  my  opportunities  for  pro¬ 
paganda  will  be  exhausted.  Death,  suicide,  is  the  only 
logical,  the  sole  possible,  conclusion.  Yes,  that  is  self- 
evident.  If  I  only  knew  the  date  of  my  trial, — that 
day  will  be  my  last.  The  poor  old  Italian, — he  and  his 
sons,  they  at  least  know  when  they  are  to  die.  They 


88  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


count  each  day;  every  hour  brings  them  closer  to  the 
end.  They  will  be  hanged  here,  in  the  jail  yard.  Per¬ 
haps  they  killed  under  great  provocation,  in  the  heat 
of  passion.  But  the  sheriff  will  murder  them  in  cold 
blood.  The  law  of  peace  and  order! 

I  shall  not  be  hanged — yet  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
dead.  My  life  is  done;  only  the  last  rite  remains  to  be 
performed.  After  that — well,  I’ll  find  a  way.  When  the 
trial  is  over,  they’ll  return  me  to  my  cell.  The  spoon  is 
of  tin :  I  shall  put  a  sharp  edge  on  it — on  the  stone  floor 
— very  quietly,  at  night — 

“Number  six,  to  court!  Num-ber  six!” 

Did  the  turnkey  call  “six”?  Who  is  in  cell  six? 
Why,  it’s  my  cell!  I  feel  the  cold  perspiration  running 
down  my  back.  My  heart  beats  violently,  my  hands 
tremble,  as  I  hastily  pick  up  the  newspaper.  Nervously 
I  turn  the  pages.  There  must  be  some  mistake:  my 
name  didn’t  appear  yet  in  the  court  calendar  column. 
The  list  is  published  every  Monday — why,  this  is  Satur¬ 
day’s  paper — yesterday  we  had  service — it  must  be  Mon¬ 
day  to-day.  Oh,  shame !  They  didn’t  give  me  the  paper 
to-day,  and  it’s  Monday — yes,  it’s  Monday — 

The  shadow  falls  across  my  door.  The  lock  clicks. 

“Hurry,  To  court!” 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  TRIAL 

The  courtroom  breathes  the  chill  of  the  graveyard. 
The  stained  windows  cast  sickly  rays  into  the  silent 
chamber.  In  the  sombre  light  the  faces  look  funereal, 
spectral. 

Anxiously  I  scan  the  room.  Perhaps  my  friends,  the 
Girl,  have  come  to  greet  me.  ...  Everywhere  cold  eyes 
meet  my  gaze.  Police  and  court  attendants  on  every  side. 
Several  newspaper  men  draw  near.  It  is  humiliating 
that  through  them  I  must  speak  to  the  People. 

.  “Prisoner  at  the  bar,  stand  up !” 

The  Commonwealth  of  Pennsylvania — the  clerk 
vociferates — charges  me  with  felonious  assault  on  H.  C. 
Frick,  with  intent  to  kill;  felonious  assault  on  John  G.  A. 
Leishman;  feloniously  entering  the  offices  of  the  Car¬ 
negie  Company  on  three  occasions,  each  constituting  a 
separate  indictment;  and  with  unlawfully  carrying  con¬ 
cealed  weapons. 

“Do  you  plead  guilty  or  not  guilty?” 

I  protest  against  the  multiplication  of  the  charges.  I 
do  not  deny  the  attempt  on  Frick,  but  the  accusation  of 
having  assaulted  Leishman  is  not  true.  I  have  visited 
the  Carnegie  offices  only — 

“Do  you  plead  guilty  or  not  guilty?”  the  judge  inter¬ 
rupts.  v 

“Not  guilty.  I  want  to  explain — ” 

“Your  attorneys  will  do  that.” 

“I  have  no  attorney.” 


89 


90  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

► 

“The  Court  will  appoint  one  to  defend  you.” 

“I  need  no  defence.  I  want  to  make  a  statement.” 

“You  will  be  given  an  opportunity  af  the  proper 
time.” 

Impatiently  I  watch  the  proceedings.  Of  what  use 
are  all  these  preliminaries  ?  My  conviction  is  a  foregone 
conclusion.  The  men  in  the  jury  box  there,  they  are  to 
decide  my  fate.  As  if  they  could  understand!  They 
measure  me  with  cold,  unsympathetic  looks.  Why  were 
the  talesmen  not  examined  in  my  presence?  They  were 
already  seated  when  I  entered. 

“When  was  the  jury  picked?”  I  demand. 

“You  have  four  challenges,”  the  prosecutor  retorts. 

The  names  of  the  talesmen  sound  strange.  But  what 
matter  who  are  the  men  to  judge  me?  They,  too,  belong 
to  the  enemy.  They  will  do  the  master’s  bidding.  Yet 
I  may,  even  for  a  moment,  clog  the  wheels  of  the  Jugger¬ 
naut.  At  random,  I  select  four  names  from  the  printed 
list,  and  the  new  jurors  file  into  the  box. 

The  trial  proceeds.  A  police  officer  and  two  negro 
employees  of  Frick  in  turn  take  the  witness  stand.  They 
had  seen  me  three  times  in  the  Frick  office,  they  testify. 
They  speak  falsely,  but  I  feel  indifferent  to  the  hired 
witnesses.  A  tall  man  takes  the  stand.  I  recognize  the 
detective  who  so  brazenly  claimed  to  identify  me  in  the 
jail.  He  is  followed  by  a  physician  who  states  that  each 
wound  of  Frick  might  have  proved  fatal.  John  G.  A. 
Leishman  is  called.  I  attempted  to  kill  him,  he  testifies. 
“It’s  a  lie!”  I  cry  out,  angrily,  but  the  guards  force  me 
into  the  seat.  Now  Frick  comes  forward.  He  seeks  to 
avoid  my  eye,  as  I  confront  him. 

The  prosecutor  turns  to  me.  I  decline  to  examine  the 
witnesses  for  the  State.  They  have  spoken  falsely ;  there 
is  no  truth  in  them,  and  I  shall  not  participate  in  the 
mockery. 


THE  TRIAL 


91 


“Call  the  witnesses  for  the  defence,”  the  judge 
commands. 

I  have  no  need  of  witnesses.  I  wish  to  proceed  with 
my  statement.  The  prosecutor  demands  that  I  speak 
English.  But  I  insist  on  reading  my  prepared  paper,  in 
German.  The  judge  rules  to  permit  me  the  services  of 
the  court  interpreter. 

“I  address  myself  to  the  People,”  I  begin.  “Some 
may  wonder  why  I  have  declined  a  legal  defence.  My 
reasons  are  twofold.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  an  An¬ 
archist:  I  do  not  believe  in  man-made  law,  designed  to 
enslave  and  oppress  humanity.  Secondly,  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  phenomenon  like  an  Attentat  cannot  be  measured 
by  the  narrow  standards  of  legality.  It  requires  a  view 
of  the  social  background  to  be  adequately  understood. 
A  lawyer  would  try  to  defend,  or  palliate,  my  act  from 
the  standpoint  of  the  law.  Yet  the  real  question  at 
issue  is  not  a  defence  of  myself,  but  rather  the  expla¬ 
nation  of  the  deed.  It  is  mistaken  to  believe  me  on  trial. 
The  actual  defendant  is  Society — the  system  of  injustice, 
of  the  organized  exploitation  of  the  People.” 

The  voice  of  the  interpreter  sounds  cracked  and 
shrill.  Word  for  word  he  translates  my  utterance,  the 
sentences  broken,  disconnected,  in  his  inadequate  Eng¬ 
lish.  The  vociferous  tones  pierce  my  ears,  and  my  heart 
bleeds  at  his  meaningless  declamation. 

“Translate  sentences,  not  single  words,”  I  remon¬ 
strate. 

With  an  impatient  gesture  he  leaves  me. 

“Oh,  please,  go  on !”  I  cry  in  dismay. 

He  returns  hesitatingly. 

“Look  at  my  paper,”  I  adjure  him,  “and  translate 
each  sentence  as  I  read  it.” 

The  glazy  eyes  are  turned  to  me,  in  a  blank,  unseeing 
stare.  The  man  is  blind! 


9 2  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Let — us — continue,”  he  stammers. 

“We  have  heard  enough,”  the  judge  interrupts. 

“I  have  not  read  a  third  of  my  paper,”  I  cry  in  con¬ 
sternation. 

“It  will  do.” 

“I  have  declined  the  services  of  attorneys  to  get  time 
to—” 

“We  allow  you  five  more  minutes.” 

“But  I  can’t  explain  in  such  a  short  time.  I  have  the 
right  to  be  heard.” 

“We’ll  teach  you  differently.” 

I  am  ordered  from  the  witness  chair.  Several  jury¬ 
men  leave  their  seats,  but  the  district  attorney  hurries 
forward,  and  whispers  to  them.  They  remain  in  the 
jury  box.  The  room  is  hushed  as  the  judge  rises. 

“Have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  should  not 
be  passed  upon  you?” 

“You  would  not  let  me  speak,”  I  reply.  “Your  jus¬ 
tice  is  a  farce.” 

“Silence  1” 

In  a  daze,  I  hear  the  droning  voice  on  the  bench. 
Hurriedly  the  guards  lead  me  from  the  courtroom. 

“The  judge  was  easy  on  you,”  the  Warden  jeers. 
“Twenty-two  years!  Pretty  stiff,  eh?” 


PART  11 


THE  PENITENTIARY 


WESTERN  PENITENTIARY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA— MAIN  BUILDING 


CHAPTER  I 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 

I 

“Make  yourself  at  home,  now.  You’ll  stay  here  a 
while,  huh,  huh !” 

As  in  a  dream  I  hear  the  harsh  tones.  Is  the  man 
speaking  to  me,  I  wonder.  Why  is  he  laughing?  I  feel 
so  weary,  I  long  to  be  alone. 

Now  the  voice  has  ceased;  the  steps  are  receding. 
All  is  silent,  and  I  am  alone.  A  nameless  weight 
oppresses  me.  I  feel  exhausted,  my  mind  a  void. 
Heavily  I  fall  on  the  bed.  Head  buried  in  the  straw 
pillow,  my  heart  breaking,  I  sink  into  deep  sleep. 


My  eyes  burn  as  with  hot  irons.  The  heat  sears  my 
sight,  and  consumes  my  eyelids.  Now  it  pierces  my 
head;  my  brain  is  aflame,  it  is  swept  by  a  raging  fire. 

Oh! 

I  wake  in  horror.  A  stream  of  dazzling  light  is 
pouring  into  my  face.  Terrified,  I  press  my  hands  to 
my  eyes,  but  the  mysterious  flow  pierces  my  lids,  and 
blinds  me  with  maddening  torture. 

“Get  up  and  undress.  What’s  the  matter  with  you, 
anyhow  ?” 

The  voice  frightens  me.  The  cell  is  filled  with  a  con¬ 
tinuous  glare.  Beyond,  all  is  dark,  the  guard  invisible. 

95 


96  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Now  lay  down  and  go  to  sleep.” 

Silently  I  obey,  when  suddenly  all  grows  black  before 
my  eyes.  A  terrible  fear  grips  my  heart.  Have  I  gone 
blind?  I  grope  for  the  bed,  the  wall  ...  I  can’t  see! 
With  a  desperate  cry  I  spring  to  the  door.  A  faint  click 
reaches  my  tense  ear,  the  streaming  lightning  burns  into 
my  face.  Oh,  I  can  see !  I  can  see ! 

“What  t’  hell’s  the  matter  with  you,  eh?  Go  to 
sleep.  You  hear?” 

Quiet  and  immovable  I  lie  on  the  bed.  Strange 
horrors  haunt  me.  .  .  .  What  a  terrible  place  this  must 
be !  This  agony —  I  cannot  support  it.  Twenty-two 
years !  Oh,  it  is  hopeless,  hopeless.  I  must  die.  I’ll  die 
to-night.  .  .  .  With  bated  breath  I  creep  from  the  bed. 
The  iron  bedstead  creaks.  In  affright  I  draw  back, 
feigning  sleep.  All  remains  silent.  The  guard  did  not 
hear  me.  I  should  feel  the  terrible  bull’s-eye  even  with 
closed  lids.  Slowly  I  open  my  eyes.  It  is  dark  all 
around.  I  grope  about  the  cell.  The  wall  is  damp, 
musty.  The  odors  are  nauseating.  ...  I  cannot  live 
here.  I  must  die.  This  very  night  ....  Something 
white  glimmers  in  the  corner.  Cautiously  I  bend  over. 
It  is  a  spoon.  For  a  moment  I  hold  it  indifferently ;  then 
a  great  joy  overwhelms  me.  Now  I  can  die!  I  creep 
back  into  bed,  nervously  clutching  the  tin.  My  hand 
feels  for  my  heart.  It  is  beating  violently.  I  will  put 
the  narrow  end  of  the  spoon  over  here — like  this —  I 
will  force  it  in — a  little  lower — a  steady  pressure — just 
between  the  ribs.  .  .  .  The  metal  feels  cold.  How  hot 
my  body  is !  Caressingly  I  pat  the  spoon  against  my 
side.  My  fingers  seek  the  edge.  It  is  dull.  I  must 
press  it  hard.  Yes,  it  is  very  dull.  If  I  only  had  my 
revolver.  But  the  cartridge  might  fail  to  explode. 
That’s  why  Frick  is  now  well,  and  I  must  die.  How  he 
looked  at  me  in  court !  There  was  hate  in  his  eyes,  and 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


97 


fear,  too.  He  turned  his  head  away,  he  could  not  face 
me.  I  saw  that  he  felt  guilty.  Yet  he  lives.  I  didn’t 
crush  him.  Oh,  I  failed,  I  failed.  .  .  . 

“Keep  quiet  there,  or  I’ll  put  you  in  the  hole.” 

The  gruff  voice  startles  me.  I  must  have  been  moan¬ 
ing.  I’ll  draw  the  blanket  over  my  head,  so.  What  was 
I  thinking  about?  Oh,  I  remember.  He  is  well,  and 
I  am  here.  I  failed  to  crush  him.  He  lives.  Of  course, 
it  does  not  really  matter.  The  opportunity  for  propa¬ 
ganda  is  there,  as  the  result  of  my  act.  That  was  the 
main  purpose.  But  I  meant  to  kill  him,  and  he  lives. 
My  speech,  too,  failed.  They  tricked  me.  They  kept 
the  date  secret.  They  were  afraid  my  friends  would  be 
present.  It  was  maddening  the  way  the  prosecuting 
attorney  and  the  judge  kept  interrupting  me.  I  did  not 
read  even  a  third  of  my  statement.  And  the  whole 
effect  was  lost.  How  that  man  interpreted!  The  poor 
old  man !  He  was  deeply  offended  when  I  corrected  his 
translation.  I  did  not  know  he  was  blind.  I  called  him 
back,  and  suffered  renewed  torture  at  his  screeching.  I 
was  almost  glad  when  the  judge  forced  me  to  discon¬ 
tinue.  That  judge!  He  acted  as  indifferently  as  if  the 
matter  did  not  concern  him.  He  must  have  known  that 
the  sentence  meant  death.  Twenty- two  years!  As  if 
it  is  possible  to  survive  such  a  sentence  in  this  terrible 
place!  Yes,  he  knew  it;  he  spoke  of  making  an  example 
of  me.  The  old  villain!  He  has  been  doing  it  all  his 
life:  making  an  example  of  social  victims,  the  victims 
of  his  own  class,  of  capitalism.  The  brutal  mockery  of 
it — had  I  anything  to  say  why  sentence  should  not  be 
passed?  Yet  he  wouldn’t  permit  me  to  continue  my 
statement.  “The  court  has  been  very  patient!”  I  am 
glad  I  told  him  that  I  didn’t  expect  justice,  and  did  not 
get  it.  Perhaps  I  should  have  thrown  in  his  face  the 
epithet  that  sprang  to  my  lips.  No,  it  was  best  that  I 


gS  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


controlled  my  anger.  Else  they  would  have  rejoiced  to 
proclaim  the  Anarchists  vulgar  criminals.  Such  things 
help  to  prejudice  the  People  against  us.  We,  criminals? 
We,  who  are  ever  ready  to  give  our  lives  for  liberty, 
criminals?  And  they,  our  accusers?  They  break  their 
own  laws :  they  knew  it  was  not  legal  to  multiply  the 
charges  against  me.  They  made  six  indictments  out  of 
one  act,  as  if  the  minor  “offences”  were  not  included  in 
the  major,  made  necessary  by  the  deed  itself.  They 
thirsted  for  blood.  Legally,  they  could  not  give  me  more 
than  seven  years.  But  I  am  an  Anarchist.  I  had 
attempted  the  life  of  a  great  magnate ;  in  him  capitalism 
felt  itself  attacked.  Of  course,  I  knew  they  would  take 
advantage  of  my  refusal  to  be  legally  represented. 
Twenty-two  years!  The  judge  imposed  the  maximum 
penalty  on  each  charge.  Well,  I  expected  no  less,  and 
it  makes  no  difference  now.  I  am  going  to  die,  anyway. 

I  clutch  the  spoon  in  my  feverish  hand.  Its  narrow 
end  against  my  heart,  I  test  the  resistance  of  the  flesh. 
A  violent  blow  will  drive  it  between  the  ribs.  .  .  . 

One,  two,  three — the  deep  metallic  bass  floats  upon 
the  silence,  resonant,  compelling.  Instantly  all  is 
motion:  overhead,  on  the  sides,  everything  is  vibrant 
with  life.  Men  yawn  and  cough,  chairs  and  beds  are 
noisily  moved  about,  heavy  feet  pace  stone  floors.  In  the 
distance  sounds  a  low  rolling,  as  of  thunder.  It  grows 
nearer  and  louder.  I  hear  the  officers’  sharp  command, 
the  familiar  click  of  locks,  doors  opening  and  shutting. 
Now  the  rumbling  grows  clearer,  more  distinct.  With 
a  moan  the  heavy  bread-wagon  stops  at  my  cell.  A 
guard  unlocks  the  door.  His  eyes  rest  on  me  curiously, 
suspiciously,  while  the  trusty  hands  me  a  small  loaf  of 
bread.  I  have  barely  time  to  withdraw  my  arm  before 
the  door  is  closed  and  locked. 

“Want  coffee?  Hold  your  cup.” 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


99 


Between  the  narrow  bars,  the  beverage  is  poured  into 
my  bent,  rusty  tin  can.  In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  cell 
the  steaming  liquid  overflows,  scalding  my  bare  feet. 
With  a  cry  of  pain  I  drop  the  can.  In  the  dimly-lit  hall 
the  floor  looks  stained  with  blood. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  that?”  the  guard  shouts 
at  me. 

“I  couldn’t  help  it.” 

“Want  to  be  smart,  don’t  you?  Well,  we’ll  take  it 
out  of  you.  Hey,  there,  Sam,”  the  officer  motions  to  the 
trusty,  “no  dinner  for  A  7,  you  hear !” 

“Yes,  sir.  Yes,  sir !” 

“No  more  coffee,  either.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

The  guard  measures  me  with  a  look  of  scornful 
hatred.  Malice  mirrors  in  his  face.  Involuntarily  I  step 
back  into  the  cell.  His  gaze  falls  on  my  naked  feet. 

“Ain’t  you  got  no  shoes  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ye-e-s!  Can’t  you  say ‘sir’ ?  Got  shoes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Put  ’em  on,  damn  you.” 

His  tongue  sweeps  the  large  quid  of  tobacco  from  one 
cheek  to  the  other.  With  a  hiss,  a  thick  stream  of  brown 
splashes  on  my  feet.  “Damn  you,  put  ’em  on.” 

The  clatter  and  noises  have  ceased;  the  steps  have 
died  away.  All  is  still  in  the  dark  hall.  Only  occasional 
shadows  flit  by,  silent,  ghostlike. 

ir 

“Forward,  march !” 

The  long  line  of  prisoners,  in  stripes  and  lockstep, 
resembles  an  undulating  snake,  wriggling  from  side  to 


100  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


side,  its  black-and-gray  body  moving  forward,  yet  appar¬ 
ently  remaining  in  the  same  spot.  A  thousand  feet  strike 
the  stone  floor  in  regular  tempo,  with  alternate  rising 
and  falling  accent,  as  each  division,  flanked  by  officers, 
approaches  and  passes  my  cell.  Brutal  faces,  repulsive 
in  their  stolid  indifference  or  malicious  leer.  Here  and 
there  a  well-shaped  head,  intelligent  eye,  or  sympathetic 
expression,  but  accentuates  the  features  of  the  striped 
line :  coarse  and  sinister,  with  the  guilty-treacherous  look 
of  the  ruthlessly  hunted.  Head  bent,  right  arm  extended, 
with  hand  touching  the  shoulder  of  the  man  in  front,  all 
uniformly  clad  in  horizontal  black  and  gray,  the  men 
seem  will-less  cogs  in  a  machine,  oscillating  to  the 
shouted  command  of  the  tall  guards  on  the  flanks, 
stern  and  alert. 

The  measured  beat  grows  fainter  and  dies  with  the 
hollow  thud  of  the  last  footfall,  behind  the  closed  double 
door  leading  into  the  prison  yard.  The  pall  of  silence 
descends  upon  the  cell-house.  I  feel  utterly  alone,  de¬ 
serted  and  forsaken  amid  the  towering  pile  of  stone  and 
iron.  The  stillness  overwhelms  me  with  almost  tangible 
weight.  I  am  buried  within  the  narrow  walls ;  the 
massive  rock  is  pressing  down  upon  my  head,  my  sides. 
I  cannot  breathe.  The  foul  air  is  stifling.  Oh,  I  can’t, 
I  can’t  live  here!  I  can’t  suffer  this  agony.  Twenty-two 
years !  It  is  a  lifetime.  No,  it’s  impossible.  I  must  die. 
I  will !  Now  ! 

Clutching  the  spoon,  I  throw  myself  on  the  bed. 
My  eyes  wander  over  the  cell,  faintly  lit  by  the  light  in 
the  hall :  the  whitewashed  walls,  yellow  with  damp — the 
splashes  of  dark-red  blood  at  the  head  of  the  bed — 
the  clumps  of  vermin  around  the  holes  in  the  wall — the 
small  table  and  the  rickety  chair — the  filthy  floor,  black 
and  gray  in  spots.  .  .  .  Why,  it’s  stone !  I  can  sharpen 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


IOI 


the  spoon.  Cautiously  I  crouch  in  the  corner.  The  tin 
glides  over  the  greasy  surface,  noiselessly,  smoothly, 
till  the  thick  layer  of  filth  is  worn  off.  Then  it  scratches 
and  scrapes.  With  the  pillow  I  deaden  the  rasping 
sound.  The  metal  is  growing  hot  in  my  hand.  I  pass 
the  sharp  edge  across  my  finger.  Drops  of  blood  trickle 
down  to  the  floor.  The  wound  is  ragged,  but  the  blade 
is  keen.  Stealthily  I  crawl  back  into  bed.  My  hand 
gropes  for  my  heart.  I  touch  the  spot  with  the  blade. 
Between  the  ribs — here — I’ll  be  dead  when  they  find 
me.  ...  If  Frick  had  only  died.  So  much  propaganda 
could  be  made — that  damned  Most,  if  he  hadn’t  turned 
against  me!  He  will  ruin  the  whole  effect  of  the  act. 
It’s  nothing  but  cowardice.  But  what  is  he  afraid  of? 
They  can’t  implicate  him.  We’ve  been  estranged  for 
over  a  year.  He  could  easily  prove  it.  The  traitor! 
Preached  propaganda  by  deed  all  his  life — now  he 
repudiates  the  first  Attentat  in  this  country.  What 
tremendous  agitation  he  could  have  made  of  it!  Now 
he  denies  me,  he  doesn’t  know  me.  The  wretch !  He 
knew  me  well  enough  and  trusted  me,  too,  when  together 
we  set  up  the  secret  circular  in  the  Freiheit  office. 
It  was  in  William  Street.  We  waited  for  the  other 
compositors  to  leave;  then  we  worked  all  night.  It  was 
to  recommend  me:  I  planned  to  go  to  Russia  then. 
Yes,  to  Russia.  Perhaps  I  might  have  done  something 
important  there.  Why  didn’t  I  go?  What  was  it? 
Well,  I  can’t  think  of  it  now.  It’s  peculiar,  though.  But 
America  was  more  important.  Plenty  of  revolutionists  in 
Russia.  And  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  I’ll  never  do  anything  more. 
I’ll  be  dead  soon.  They’ll  finff  rne  cold — a  pool  of  blood 
under  me — the  mattress  will  be  red — no,  it  will  be 
dark-red,  and  the  blood  will  soak  through  the  straw  .  .  . 
I  wonder  how  much  blood  I  have.  It  will  gush  from 
my  heart — I  must  strike  right  here — strong  and  quick 


102  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

— it  will  not  pain  much.  But  the  edge  is  ragged — it  may 
catch — or  tear  the  flesh.  They  say  the  skin  is  tough. 
I  must  strike  hard.  Perhaps  better  to  fall  against  the 
blade?  No,  the  tin  may  bend.  I’ll  grasp  it  close — like 
this — then  a  quick  drive — right  into  the  heart — it’s  the 
surest  way.  I  must  not  wound  myself — I  would  bleed 
slowly — they  might  discover  me  still  alive.  No,  no! 
I  must  die  at  once.  They’ll  find  me  dead — my  heart — 
they’ll  feel  it — not  beating — the  blade  still  in  it — they’ll 
call  the  doctor — “He’s  dead.”  And  the  Girl  and  Fedya 
and  the  others  will  hear  of  it — she’ll  be  sad — but  she 
will  understand.  Yes,  she  will  be  glad — they  couldn’t 
torture  me  here — she’ll  know  I  cheated  them — yes, 
she.  .  .  .  Where  is  she  now?  What  does  she  think  of 
it  all?  Does  she,  too,  think  I’ve  failed?  And  Fedya, 
also?  If  I’d  only  hear  from  her — just  once.  It  would 
be  easier  to  die.  But  she’ll  understand,  she — 

“Git  ofif  that  bed!  Don’t  you  know  the  rules,  eh? 
Get  out  o’  there!” 

Horrified,  speechless,  I  spring  to  my  feet.  The  spoon 
falls  from  my  relaxed  grip.  It  strikes  the  floor,  clinking 
on  the  stone  loudly,  damningly.  My  heart  stands  still 
as  I  face  the  guard.  There  is  something  repulsively 
familiar  about  the  tall  man,  his  mouth  drawn  into  a 
derisive  smile.  Oh,  it’s  the  officer  of  the  morning! 

“Foxy,  ain’t  you?  Gimme  that  spoon.” 

The  coffee  incident  flashes  through  my  mind.  Loath¬ 
ing  and  hatred  of  the  tall  guard  fill  my  being.  For  a 
second  I  hesitate.  I  must  hide  the  spoon.  I  cannot 
afford  to  lose  it — not  to  this  brute — 

“Cap’n,  here!” 

I  am  dragged  from  the  cell.  The  tall  keeper  care¬ 
fully  examines  the  spoon,  a  malicious  grin  stealing  over 
his  face. 


103 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 

'‘Look,  Capn.  Sharp  as  a  razor..  Pretty  des- 
p’rate,  eh?” 

“Take  him  to  the  Deputy,  Mr.  Fellings.” 


Ill 

In  the  rotunda,  connecting  the  north  and  south 
cell-houses,  the  Deputy  stands  at  a  high  desk.  Angular 
and  bony,  with  slightly  stooped  shoulders,  his  face  is 
a  mass  of  minute  wrinkles  seamed  on  yellow  parchment. 
The  curved  nose  overhangs  thin,  compressed  lips.  The 
steely  eyes  measure  me  coldly,  unfriendly. 

“Who  is  this?” 

The  low,  almost  feminine,  voice  sharply  accentuates 
the  cadaver-like  face  and  figure.  The  contrast  is 
startling. 

“A  7.” 

“What  is  the  charge,  Officer?” 

“Two  charges,  Mr.  McPane.  Layin’  in  bed  and 
tryin’  soocide.” 

A  smile  of  satanic  satisfaction  slowly  spreads  over 
the  Deputy’s  wizened  face.  The  long,  heavy  fingers  of 
his  right  hand  work  convulsively,  as  if  drumming  stiffly 
on  an  imaginary  board. 

“Yes,  hm,  hm,  yes.  A  7,  two  charges.  Hm,  hm. 
How  did  he  try  to,  hm,  hm,  to  commit  suicide?” 

“With  this  spoon,  Mr.  McPane.  Sharp  as  a  razor.” 

“Yes,  hm,  yes.  Wants  to  die.  We  have  no  such 
charge  as,  hm,  hm,  as  trying  suicide  in  this  institution. 
Sharpened  spoon,  hm,  hm;  a  grave  offence.  I’ll  see 
about  that  later.  For  breaking  the  rules,  hm,  hm,  by 
lying  in  bed  out  of  hours,  hm,  hm,  three  days.  Take  him 
down,  Officer.  He  will,  hm,  hm,  cool  off.” 


104  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


I  am  faint  and  weary.  A  sense  of  utter  indifference 
possesses  me.  Vaguely  I  am  conscious  of  the  guards 
leading  me  through  dark  corridors,  dragging  me  down 
steep  flights,  half  undressing  me,  and  finally  thrusting 
me  into  a  black  void.  I  am  dizzy;  my  head  is  awhirl. 
I  stagger  and  fall  on  the  flagstones  of  the  dungeon. 


The  cell  is  filled  with  light.  It  hurts  my  eyes. 
Some  one  is  bending  over  me. 

“A  bit  feverish.  Better  take  him  to  the  cell.” 

“Hm,  hm,  Doctor,  he  is  in  punishment.” 

“Not  safe,  Mr.  McPane.” 

“We’ll  postpone  it,  then.  Hm,  hm,  take  him  to  the 
cell,  Officers.” 

“Git  up.” 

My  legs  seem  paralyzed.  They  refuse  to  move. 
I  am  lifted  and  carried  up  the  stairs,  through  corridors 
and  halls,  and  then  thrown  heavily  on  a  bed. 

I  feel  so  weak.  Perhaps  I  shall  die  now.  It  would 
be  best.  But  I  have  no  weapon !  They  have  taken 
away  the  spoon.  There  is  nothing  in  the  cell  that  I 
could  use.  These  iron  bars — I  could  beat  my  head 
against  them.  But  oh !  it  is  such  a  horrible  death.  My 
skull  would  break,  and  the  brains  ooze  out.  .  .  .  But  the 
bars  are  smooth.  Would  my  skull  break  with  one  blow  ? 
I’m  afraid  it  might  only  crack,  and  I  should  be  too  weak 
to  strike  again.  If  I  only  had  a  revolver;  that  is  the 
easiest  and  quickest.  I’ve  always  thought  I’d  prefer  such 
a  death — to  be  shot.  The  barrel  close  to  the  temple 
— one  couldn’t  miss.  Some  people  have  done  it  in 
front  of  a  mirror.  But  I  have  no  mirror.  I  have  no 
revolver,  either.  .  .  .  Through  the  mouth  it  is  also 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


105 


fatal.  .  .  .  That  Moscow  student — Russov  was  his 
name;  yes,  Ivan  Russov — he  shot  himself  through 
the  mouth.  Of  course,  he  was  foolish  to  kill  himself 
for  a  woman ;  but  I  admired  his  courage.  How  coolly  he 
had  made  all  preparations ;  he  even  left  a  note  directing 
that  his  gold  watch  be  given  to  the  landlady,  because — 
he  wrote — after  passing  through  his  brain,  the  bullet 
might  damage  the  wall.  Wonderful !  It  actually 
happened  that  way.  I  saw  the  bullet  imbedded  in  the 
wall  near  the  sofa,  and  Ivan  lay  so  still  and  peaceful, 

I  thought  he  was  asleep.  I  had  often  seen  him  like  that 
in  my  brother’s  study,  after  our  lessons.  What  a 
splendid  tutor  he  was!  I  liked  him  from  the  first,  when 
mother  introduced  him:  “Sasha,  Ivan  Nikolaievitch  will 
be  your  instructor  in  Latin  during  vacation  time.”  My 
hand  hurt  all  day;  he  had  gripped  it  so  powerfully,  like 
a  vise.  But  I  was  glad  I  didn’t  cry  out.  I  admired 
him  for  it;  I  felt  he  must  be  very  strong  and  manly  to 
have  such  a  handshake.  Mother  smiled  when  I  told 
her  about  it.  Her  hand  pained  her  too,  she  said.  Sister 
blushed  a  little.  “Rather  energetic,”  she  observed.  And 
Maxim  felt  so  happy  over  the  favorable  impression 
made  by  his  college  chum.  “What  did  I  tell  you?”  he 
cried,  in  glee;  “Ivan  Nikolaievitch  molodetz!*  Think 
of  it,  he’s  only  twenty.  Graduates  next  year.  The 
youngest  alumnus  since  the  foundation  of  the  university. 
Molodetz /”  But  how  red  were  Maxim’s  eyes  when  he 
brought  the  bullet  home.  He  would  keep  it,  he  said, 
as  long  as  he  lived:  he  had  dug  it  out,  with  his  own  • 
hands,  from  the  wall  of  Ivan  Nikolaievitch’s  room.  At 
dinner  he  opened  the  little  box,  unwrapped  the  cotton, 
and  showed  me  the  bullet.  Sister  went  into  hysterics, 
and  mamma  called  Max  a  brute.  “For  a  woman,  an 


*  Clever,  brave  lad. 


IO 6  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


unworthy  woman!”  sister  moaned.  I  thought  he  was 
foolish  to  take  his  life  on  account  of  a  woman.  I  felt 
a  little  disappointed:  Ivan  Nikolaievitch  should  have  been 
more  manly.  They  all  said  she  was  very  beautiful,  the 
acknowledged  belle  of  Kovno.  She  was  tall  and  stately, 
but  I  thought  she  walked  too  stiffly;  she  seemed  self- 
conscious  and  artificial.  Mother  said  I  was  too  young 
to  talk  of  such  things.  How  shocked  she  would  have 
been  had  she  known  that  I  was  in  love  with  Nadya,  my 
sister’s  chum.  And  I  had  kissed  our  chambermaid,  too. 
Dear  little  Rosa, — I  remember  she  threatened  to  tell 
mother.  I  was  so  frightened,  I  wouldn’t  come  to  dinner. 
Mamma  sent  the  maid  to  call  me,  but  I  refused  to  go 
till  Rosa  promised  not  to  tell.  .  .  .  The  sweet  girl,  with 
those  red-apple  cheeks.  How  kind  she  was!  But  the 
little  imp  couldn’t  keep  the  secret.  She  told  Tatanya, 
the  cook  of  our  neighbor,  the  Latin  instructor  at  the 
gymnasium.  Next  day  he  teased  me  about  the  servant 
girl.  Before  the  whole  class,  too.  I  wished  the  floor 
would  open  and  swallow  me.  I  was  so  mortified. 

.  .  .  How  far  off  it  all  seems.  Centuries  away. 
I  wonder  what  has  become  of  her.  Where  is  Rosa  now  ? 
Why,  she  must  be  here,  in  America.  I  had  almost  for¬ 
gotten, — I  met  her  in  New  York.  It  was  such  a  surprise. 
I  was  standing  on  the  stoop  of  the  tenement  house  where 
I  boarded.  I  had  then  been  only  a  few  months  in  the 
country.  A  young  lady  passed  by.  She  looked  up  at  me, 
then  turned  and  ascended  the  steps.  “Don’t  you  know 
me,  Mr.  Berkman?  Don’t  you  really  recognize  me?” 
Some  mistake,  I  thought.  I  had  never  before  seen  this 
beautiful,  stylish  young  woman.  She  invited  me  into 
the  hallway.  “Don’t  tell  these  people  here.  I  am  Rosa. 
Don’t  you  remember?  Why,  you  know,  I  was  your 
mother’s — your  mother’s  maid.”  She  blushed  violently. 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


107 

Those  red  cheeks — why,  certainly,  it’s  Rosa!  I  thought 
of  the  stolen  kiss.  “Would  I  dare  it  now?”  I  wondered, 
suddenly  conscious  of  my  shabby  clothes.  She  seemed 
so  prosperous.  How  our  positions  were  changed!  She 
looked  the  very  barishnya*  like  my  sister.  “Is  your 
mother  here?”  she  asked.  “Mother?  She  died,  just 
before  I  left.”  I  glanced  apprehensively  at  her.  Did 
she  remember  that  terrible  scene  when  mother  struck 
her?  “I  didn’t  know  about  your  mother.”  Her  voice 
was  husky;  a  tear  glistened  in  her  eye.  The  dear  girl, 
always  generous-hearted.  I  ought  to  make  amends  to 
her  for  mother’s  insult.  We  looked  at  each  other  in 
embarrassment.  Then  she  held  out  a  gloved  hand. 
Very  large,  I  thought;  red,  too,  probably.  “Good-byey 
Gospodin f  Berkman,”  she  said.  “I’ll  see  you  again  soon. 
Please  don’t  tell  these  people  who  I  am.”  I  experienced 
a  feeling  of  guilt  and  shame.  Gospodin  Berkman — 
somehow  it  echoed  the  servile  barinya%  with  which  the 
domestics  used  to  address  my  mother.  For  all  her  finery, 
Rosa  had  not  gotten  over  it.  Too  much  bred  in,  poor 
girl.  She  has  not  become  emancipated.  I  never  saw 
her  at  our  meetings ;  she  is  conservative,  no  doubt.  She 
was  so  ignorant,  she  could  not  even  read.  Perhaps  she 
has  learned  in  this  country.  Now  she  will  read  about 
me,  and  she’ll  know  how  I  died.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  haven’t  the 
spoon!  What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do?  I  can’t  live. 
I  couldn’t  stand  this  torture.  Perhaps  if  I  had  seven 
years,  I  would  try  to  serve  the  sentence.  But  I  couldn’t, 
anyhow.  I  might  live  here  a  year,  or  two.  But  twenty- 
two,  twenty-two  years!  What  is  the  use?  No  man 
could  survive  it.  It’s  terrible,  twenty-two  years !  Their 
cursed  justice — they  always  talk  of  law.  Yet  legally  I 
shouldn’t  have  gotten  more  than  seven  years.  Legally! 


♦Young  lady,  t  Mister.  $  Lady. 


108  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


As  if  they  care  about  “legality.”  They  wanted  to  make 
an  example  of  me.  Of  course,  I  knew  it  beforehand; 
but  if  I  had  seven  years — perhaps  I  might  live  through 
it ;  I  would  try.  But  twenty-two — it’s  a  lifetime,  a  whole 
lifetime.  Seventeen  is  no  better.  That  man  Jamestown 
got  seventeen  years.  He  celled  next  to  me  in  the  jail. 
He  didn’t  look  like  a  highway  robber,  he  was  so  small 
and  puny.  He  must  be  here  now.  A  fool,  to  think  he 
could  live  here  seventeen  years.  In  this  hell — what  an 
imbecile  he  is!  He  should  have  committed  suicide  long 
ago.  They  sent  him  away  before  my  trial ;  it’s  about  three 
weeks  ago.  Enough  time ;  why  hasn’t  he  done  something? 
He  will  soon  die  here,  anyway;  it  would  be  better  to 
suicide.  A  strong  man  might  live  five  years ;  I  doubt  it, 
though;  perhaps  a  very  strong  man  might.  /  couldn’t; 
no,  I  know  I  couldn’t;  perhaps  two  or  three  years,  at 
most.  We  had  often  spoken  about  this,  the  Girl,  Fedya, 
and  I.  I  had  then  such  a  peculiar  idea  of  prison:  I 
thought  I  would  be  sitting  on  the  floor  in  a  gruesome, 
black  hole,  with  my  hands  and  feet  chained  to  the  wall; 
and  the  worms  would  crawl  over  me,  and  slowly  devour 
my  face  and  my  eyes,  and  I  so  helpless,  chained  to  the 
wall.  The  Girl  and  Fedya  had  a  similar  idea.  She  said  she 
might  bear  prison  life  a  few  weeks.  I  could  for  a  year,  I 
thought ;  but  was  doubtful.  I  pictured  myself  fighting  the 
worms  off  with  my  feet;  it  would  take  the  vermin  that 
long  to  eat  all  my  flesh,  till  they  got  to  my  heart;  that 
would  be  fatal.  .  .  .  And  the  vermin  here,  those  big, 
brown  bedbugs,  they  must  be  like  those  worms,  so  vicious 
and  hungry.  Perhaps  there  are  worms  here,  too.  There 
must  be  in  the  dungeon:  there  is  a  wound  on  my  foot. 
I  don’t  know  how  it  happened.  I  was  unconscious  in 
that  dark  hole — it  was  just  like  my  old  idea  of  prison. 
I  couldn’t  live  even  a  week  there :  it’s  awful.  Here  it 
is  a  little  better ;  but  it’s  never  light  in  this  cell, — always 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS 


109 


in  semidarkness.  And  so  small  and  narrow ;  no 
windows;  it’s  damp,  and  smells  so  foully  all  the  time. 
The  walls  are  wet  and  clammy ;  smeared  with  blood,  too. 
Bedbugs — augh !  it’s  nauseating.  Not  much  better  than 
that  black  hole,  with  my  hands  and  arms  chained  to  the 
wall.  Just  a  trifle  better, — my  hands  are  not  chained. 
Perhaps  I  could  live  here  a  few  years :  no  more  than 
three,  or  may  be  five.  But  these  brutal  officers !  No,  no, 
I  couldn’t  stand  it.  I  want  to  die!  I’d  die  here  soon, 
anyway;  they  will  kill  me.  But  I  won’t  give  the  enemy 
the  satisfaction;  they  shall  not  be  able  to  say  that  they 
are  torturing  me  in  prison,  or  that  they  killed  me.  No ! 
I’d  rather  kill  myself.  Yes,  kill  myself.  I  shall  have 
to  do  it — with  my  head  against  the  bars — no,  not  now! 
At  night,  when  it’s  all  dark, — they  couldn’t  save  me  then. 
It  will  be  a  terrible  death,  but  it  must  be  done.  .  .  . 
If  I  only  knew  about  “them”  in  New  York — the  Girl 
and  Fedya — it  would  be  easier  to  die  then.  .  .  .  What  arp 
they  doing  in  the  case?  Are  they  making  propaganda 
out  of  it  ?  They  must  be  waiting  to  hear  of  my  suicide. 
They  know  I  can’t  live  here  long.  Perhaps  they  wonder 
why  I  didn’t  suicide  right  after  the  trial.  But  I  could 
not.  I  thought  I  should  be  taken  from  the  court  to  my 
cell  in  jail;  sentenced  prisoners  usually  are.  I  had 
prepared  to  hang  myself  that  night,  but  they  must  have 
suspected  something.  They  brought  me  directly  here 
from  the  courtroom.  Perhaps  I  should  have  been 
dead  now — 

“Supper!  Want  coffee?  Hold  your  tin!”  the  trusty 
shouts  into  the  door.  Suddenly  he  whispers,  “Grab  it, 
quick!”  A  long,  dark  object  is  shot  between  the  bars 
into  the  cell,  dropping  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  man 
is  gone.  I  pick  up  the  parcel,  tightly  wrapped  in  brown 
paper.  What  can  it  be?  The  outside  cover  protects 
two  layers  of  old  newspaper;  then  a  white  object  comes 


Iio  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


to  view.  A  towel!  There  is  something  round  and 
hard  inside — it’s  a  cake  of  soap.  A  sense  of  thankfulness 
steals  into  my  heart,  as  I  wonder  who  the  donor  may 
be.  It  is  good  to  know  that  there  is  at  least  one  being 
here  with  a  friendly  spirit.  Perhaps  it’s  some  one  I 
knew  in  the  jail.  But  how  did  he  procure  these  things? 
Are  they  permitted?  The  towel  feels  nice  and  soft;  it 
is  a  relief  from  the  hard  straw  bed.  Everything  is  so 
hard  and  coarse  here — the  language,  the  guards.  .  .  . 
I  pass  the  towel  over  my  face;  it  soothes  me  somewhat. 
I  ought  to  wash  up — my  head  feels  so  heavy — I  haven’t 
washed  since  I  got  here.  When  did  I  come?  Let  me 
see;  what  is  to-day?  I  don’t  know,  I  can’t  think.  But 
my  trial — it  was  on  Monday,  the  nineteenth  of  Septem¬ 
ber.  They  brought  me  here  in  the  afternoon;  no,  in 
the  evening.  And  that  guard — he  frightened  me  so  with 
the  bull’s-eye  lantern.  Was  it  last  night?  No,  it  must 
have  been  longer  than  that.  Have  I  been  here  only 
since  yesterday  ?  Why,  it  seems  such  a  long  time !  Can 
this  be  Tuesday,  only  Tuesday?  I’ll  ask  the  trusty  the 
next  time  he  passes.  I’ll  find  out  who  sent  this  towel, 
too.  Perhaps  I  could  get  some  cold  water  from  him; 
or  may  be  there  is  some  here — 

My  eyes  are  growing  accustomed  to  the  semi¬ 
darkness  of  the  cell.  I  discern  objects  quite  clearly. 
There  is  a  small  wooden  table  and  an  old  chair;  in 
the  furthest  corner,  almost  hidden  by  the  bed,  is  the 
privy;  near  it,  in  the  center  of  the  wall  opposite  the 
door,  is  a  water  spigot  over  a  narrow,  circular  basin. 
The  water  is  lukewarm  and  muddy,  but  it  feels  refresh¬ 
ing.  The  rub-down  with  the  towel  is  invigorating. 
The  stimulated  blood  courses  through  my  veins  with  a 
pleasing  tingle.  Suddenly  a  sharp  sting,  as  of  a  needle, 
pricks  my  face.  There’s  a  pin  in  the  towel.  As  I  draw 
it  out,  something  white  flutters  to  the  floor.  A  note! 


DESPERATE  THOUGHTS  I  i  I 

With  ear  alert  for  a  passing  step,  I  hastily  read  the 
penciled  writing: 

Be  shure  to  tare  this  up  as  soon  as  you  reade  it,  it’s  from 
a  friend.  We  is  going  to  make  a  break  and  you  can  come  along, 
we  know  you  are  on  the  level.  Lay  low  and  keep  your  lamps 
lit  at  night,  watch  the  screws  and  the  stools  they  is  worse  than 
bulls.  Dump  is  full  of  them  and  don’t  have  nothing  to  say. 
So  long,  will  see  you  tomorrow.  A  true  friend. 

I  read  the  note  carefully,  repeatedly.  The  peculiar 
language  baffles  me.  Vaguely  I  surmise  its  meaning: 
evidently  an  escape  is  being  planned.  My  heart  beats 
violently,  as  I  contemplate  the  possibilities.  If  I  could 
escape.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  should  not  have  to  die !  Why  haven’t 
I  thought  of  it  before?  What  a  glorious  thing  it  would 
be !  Of  course,  they  would  ransack  the  country  for  me. 
I  should  have  to  hide.  But  what  does  it  matter? 
I’d  be  at  liberty.  And  what  tremendous  effect!  It 
would  make  great  propaganda:  people  would  become 
much  interested,  and  I — why,  I  should  have  new 
opportunities — 

The  shadow  of  suspicion  falls  over  my  joyous 
thought,  overwhelming  me  with  despair.  Perhaps  a 
trap !  I  don’t  know  who  wrote  the  note.  A  fine  con¬ 
spirator  I’d  prove,  to  be  duped  so  easily.  But  why 
should  they  want  to  trap  me  ?  And  who  ?  Some  guard  ? 
What  purpose  could  it  serve?  But  they  are  so  mean, 
so  brutal.  That  tall  officer — the  Deputy  called  him 
Fellings — he  seems  to  have  taken  a  bitter  dislike  to  me. 
This  may  be  his  work,  to  get  me  in  trouble.  Would 
he  really  stoop  to  such  an  outrage  ?  These  things 
happen — they  have  been  done  in  Russia.  And  he  looks 
like  a  provocateur,  the  scoundrel.  No,  he  won’t  get  me 
that  way.  I  must  read  the  note  again.  It  contains  so 
many  expressions  I  don’t  understand.  I  should  “keep 
my  lamps  lit.”  What  lamps?  There  are  none  in  the 


112  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 

cell;  where  am  I  to  get  them?  And  what  “screws” 
must  I  watch?  And  the  “stools,” — I  have  only  a  chair 
here.  Why  should  I  watch  it?  Perhaps  it’s  to  be  used 
as  a  weapon.  No,  it  must  mean  something  else.  The 
note  says  he  will  call  to-morrow.  I’ll  be  able  to  tell  by 
his  looks  whether  he  can  be  trusted.  Yes,  yes,  that 
will  be  best.  I’ll  wait  till  to-morrow.  Oh,  I  wish  it 
were  here! 


I 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 

I 

The  days  drag  interminably  in  the  semidarkness 
of  the  cell.  The  gong  regulates  my  existence  with 
depressing  monotony.  But  the  tenor  of  my  thoughts 
has  been  changed  by  the  note  of  the  mysterious  corre¬ 
spondent.  In  vain  I  have  been  waiting  for  his  appear¬ 
ance, — yet  the  suggestion  of  escape  has  germinated 
hope.  The  will  to  live  is  beginning  to  assert  itself, 
growing  more  imperative  as  the  days  go  by.  I  wonder 
that  my  mind  dwells  upon  suicide  more  and  more  rarely, 
ever  more  cursorily.  The  thought  of  self-destruction 
fills  me  with  dismay.  Every  possibility  of  escape  must 
first  be  exhausted,  I  reassure  my  troubled  conscience. 
Surely  I  have  no  fear  of  death — when  the  proper  time 
arrives.  But  haste  would  be  highly  imprudent; 
worse,  quite  unnecessary.  Indeed,  it  is  my  duty  as  a 
revolutionist  to  seize  every  opportunity  for  propaganda : 
escape  would  afford  me  many  occasions  to  serve  the 
Cause.  It  was  thoughtless  on  my  part  to  condemn  that 
man  Jamestown.  I  even  resented  his  seemingly  unfor¬ 
givable  delay  in  committing  suicide,  considering  the 
impossible  sentence  of  seventeen  years.  Indeed,  I  was 
unjust:  Jamestown  is,  no  doubt,  forming  his  plans.  It 
takes  time  to  mature  such  an  undertaking:  one  must 
first  familiarize  himself  with  the  new  surroundings,  get 

113 


1 14  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


one’s  bearings  in  the  prison.  So  far  I  have  had  but  little 
chance  to  do  so.  Evidently,  it  is  the  policy  of  the 
authorities  to  keep  me  in  solitary  confinement,  and  in 
consequent  ignorance  of  the  intricate  system  of  hallways, 
double  gates,  and  winding  passages.  At  liberty  to  leave 
this  place,  it  would  prove  difficult  for  me  to  find,  unaided, 
my  way  out.  Oh,  if  I  possessed  the  magic  ring  I  dreamed 
of  last  night!  It  was  a  wonderful  talisman,  secreted — I 
fancied  in  the  dream — by  the  goddess  of  the  Social 
Revolution.  I  saw  her  quite  distinctly:  tall  and  com¬ 
manding,  the  radiance  of  all-conquering  love  in  her  eyes. 
She  stood  at  my  bedside,  a  smile  of  surpassing  gentleness 
suffusing  the  queenly  countenance,  her  arm  extended 
above  me,  half  in  blessing,  half  pointing  toward  the 
dark  wall.  Eagerly  I  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
arched  hand — there,  in  a  crevice,  something  luminous 
glowed  with  the  brilliancy  of  fresh  dew  in  the  morning 
sun.  It  was  a  heart-shaped  ring  cleft  in  the  centre. 
Its  scintillating  rays  glorified  the  dark  corner  with  the 
aureole  of  a  great  hope.  Impulsively  I  reached  out,  and 
pressed  the  parts  of  the  ring  into  a  close-fitting  whole, 
when,  lo!  the  rays  burst  into  a  fire  that  spread  and  in¬ 
stantly  melted  the  iron  and  steel,  and  dissolved  the  prison 
walls,  disclosing  to  my  enraptured  gaze  green  fields  and 
woods,  and  men  and  women  playfully  at  work  in  the 
sunshine  of  freedom.  And  then  .  .  .  something  dis¬ 
pelled  the  vision. 

Oh,  if  I  had  that  magic  heart  now!  To  escape, 
to  be  free!  May  be  my  unknown  friend  will  yet  keep 
his  word.  He  is  probably  perfecting  plans,  or  perhaps 
it  is  not  safe  for  him  to  visit  me.  If  my  comrades 
could  aid  me,  escape  would  be  feasible.  But  the  Girl 
and  Fedya  will  never  consider  the  possibility.  No  doubt 
they  refrain  from  writing  because  they  momentarily 
expect  to  hear  of  my  suicide.  How  distraught  the  poor 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 


115 

Girl  must  be!  Yet  she  should  have  written:  it  is  now 
four  days  since  my  removal  to  the  penitentiary.  Every 
day  I  anxiously  await  the  coming  of  the  Chaplain, 
who  distributes  the  mail. — There  he  is!  The  quick, 
nervous  step  has  become  familiar  to  my  ear. 
Expectantly  I  follow  his  movements;  I  recognize  the 
vigorous  slam  of  the  door  and  the  click  of  the  spring 
lock.  The  short  steps  patter  on  the  bridge  connect¬ 
ing  the  upper  rotunda  with  the  cell-house,  and 
pass  along  the  gallery.  The  solitary  footfall  amid  the 
silence  reminds  me  of  the  timid  haste  of  one  crossing 
a  graveyard  at  night.  Now  the  Chaplain  pauses:  he  is 
comparing  the  number  of  the  wooden  block  hanging 
outside  the  cell  with  that  on  the  letter.  Some  one  has 
remembered  a  friend  in  prison.  The  steps  continue  and 
grow  faint,  as  the  postman  rounds  the  distant  corner. 
He  passes  the  cell-row  on  the  opposite  side,  ascends  the 
topmost  tier,  and  finally  reaches  the  ground  floor  con¬ 
taining  my  cell.  My  heart  beats  faster  as  the  sound 
approaches:  there  must  surely  be  a  letter  for  me.  He 
is  nearing  the  cell — he  pauses.  I  can’t  see  him  yet,  but 
I  know  he  is  comparing  numbers.  Perhaps  the  letter  is 
for  me.  I  hope  the  Chaplain  will  make  no  mistake : 
Range  K,  Cell  6,  Number  A  7.  Something  light  flaps 
on  the  floor  of  the  next  cell,  and  the  quick,  short  step 
has  passed  me  by.  No  mail  for  me!  Another  twenty- 
four  hours  must  elapse  before  I  may  receive  a  letter, 
and  then,  too,  perhaps  the  faint  shadow  will  not  pause 
at  my  door. 


II 

The  thought  of  my  twenty-two-year  sentence  is 
driving  me  desperate.  I  would  make  use  of  any  means, 
however  terrible,  to  escape  from  this  hell,  to  regain 


Il6  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


liberty.  Liberty !  What  would  it  not  offer  me  after  this 
experience?  I  should  have  the  greatest  opportunity  for 
revolutionary  activity.  I  would  choose  Russia.  The 
Mostianer  have  forsaken  me.  I  will  keep  aloof,  but  they 
shall  learn  what  a  true  revolutionist  is  capable  of  accom¬ 
plishing.  If  there  is  a  spark  of  manhood  in  them,  they 
will  blush  for  their  despicable  attitude  toward  my  act, 
their  shameful  treatment  of  me.  How  eager  they  will 
then  be  to  prove  their  confidence  by  exaggerated  devo¬ 
tion,  to  salve  their  guilty  conscience !  I  should  not  have  to 
complain  of  a  lack  of  financial  aid,  were  I  to  inform 
our  intimate  circles  of  my  plans  regarding  future  activity 
in  Russia.  It  would  be  glorious,  glorious !  S — sh — 

It’s  the  Chaplain.  Perhaps  he  has  mail  for  me 
to-day.  .  .  .  May  be  he  is  suppressing  letters  from  my 
friends;  or  probably  it  is  the  Warden’s  fault:  the  mailbag 
is  first  examined  in  his  office. — Now  the  Chaplain  is 
descending  to  the  ground  floor.  He  pauses.  It  must  be 
Cell  2  getting  a  letter.  Now  he  is  coming.  The  shadow 
is  opposite  my  door, — gone! 

“Chaplain,  one  moment,  please.” 

“Who’s  calling?” 

“Here,  Chaplain.  Cell  6  K.” 

“What  is  it,  my  boy?” 

“Chaplain,  I  should  like  something  to  read.” 

“Read?  Why,  we  have  a  splendid  library,  m’  boy; 
very  fine  library.  I  will  send  you  a  catalogue,  and  you 
can  draw  one  book  every  week.” 

“I  missed  library  day  on  this  range.  I’ll  have  to 
wait  another  week.  But  I’d  like  to  have  something  in 
the  meantime,  Chaplain.” 

“You  are  not  working,  m’  boy?” 

“No.” 

“You  have  not  refused  to  work,  have  you?” 

“No,  I  have  not  been  offered  any  work  yet.” 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 


ii  7 

“Oh,  well,  you  will  be  assigned  soon.  Be  patient, 
m’  boy.” 

“But  can’t  I  have  something  to  read  now?” 

“Isn’t  there  a  Bible  in  your  cell?” 

“A  Bible?  I  don’t  believe  in  it,  Chaplain.” 

“My  boy,  it  will  do  you  no  harm  to  read  it.  It  may 
do  you  good.  Read  it,  m’  boy.” 

For  a  moment  I  hesitate.  A  desperate  idea  crosses 
my  mind. 

“All  right,  Chaplain,  I’ll  read  the  Bible,  but  I  don’t 
care  for  the  modern  English  version.  Perhaps  you  have 
one  with  Greek  or  Latin  annotations?” 

“Why,  why,  m’  boy,  do  you  understand  Latin  or 
Greek  ?” 

“Yes,  I  have  studied  the  classics.” 

The  Chaplain  seems  impressed.  He  steps  close  to 
the  door,  leaning  against  it  in  the  attitude  of  a  man 
prepared  for  a  long  conversation.  We  talk  about  the 
classics,  the  sources  of  my  knowledge,  Russian  schools, 
social  conditions.  An  interesting  and  intelligent  man, 
this  prison  Chaplain,  an  extensive  traveler  whose  visit  to 
Russia  had  impressed  him  with  the  great  possibilities  of 
that  country.  Finally  he  motions  to  a  guard: 

“Let  A  7  come  with  me.” 

With  a  suspicious  glance  at  me,  the  officer  unlocks 
the  door.  “Shall  I  come  along,  Chaplain?”  he  asks, 

“No,  no.  It  is  all  right.  Come,  m’  boy.” 

Past  the  tier  of  vacant  cells,  we  ascend  the  stairway 
to  the  upper  rotunda,  on  the  left  side  of  which  is  the 
Chaplain’s  office.  Excited  and  alert,  I  absorb  every 
detail  of  the  surroundings.  I  strive  to  appear  indiffer¬ 
ent,  while  furtively  following  every  movement  of  the 
Chaplain,  as  he  selects  the  rotunda  key  from  the  large 
bunch  in  his  hand,  and  opens  the  door.  Passionate 
longing  for  liberty  is  consuming  me.  A  plan  of  escape 


Ii8  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


is  maturing  in  my  mind.  The  Chaplain  carries  all  the 
keys — he  lives  in  the  Warden’s  house,  connected  with 
the  prison — he  is  so  fragile — I  could  easily  overpower 
him — there  is  no  one  in  the  rotunda — I’d  stifle  his  cries — ■ 
take  the  keys — 

“Have  a  seat,  my  boy.  Sit  down.  Here  are  some 
books.  Look  them  over.  I  have  a  duplicate  of  my 
personal  Bible,  with  annotations.  It  is  somewhere  here.” 

With-  feverish  eyes  I  watch  him  lay  the  keys  on  the 
desk.  A  quick  motion,  and  they  would  be  mine.  That 
large  and  heavy  one,  it  must  belong  to  the  gate.  It  is 
so  big, — one  blow  would  kill  him.  Ah,  there  is  a  safe! 
The  Chaplain  is  taking  some  books  from  it.  His  back 
is  turned  to  me.  A  thrust — and  I’d  lock  him  in.  .  .  . 
Stealthily,  imperceptibly,  I  draw  nearer  to  the  desk,  my 
eyes  fastened  on  the  keys.  Now  I  bend  over  them, 
pretending  to  be  absorbed  in  a  book,  the  while  my  hand 
glides  forward,  slowly,  cautiously.  Quickly  I  lean  over; 
the  open  book  in  my  hands  entirely  hides  the  keys.  My 
hand  touches  them.  Desperately  I  clutch  the  large, 
heavy  bunch,  my  arm  slowly  rises' — 

“My  boy,  I  cannot  find  that  Bible  just  now,  but  I’ll 
give  you  some  other  book.  Sit  down,  my  boy.  I  am 
so  sorry  about  you.  I  am  an  officer  of  the  State,  but  I 
think  you  were  dealt  with  unjustly.  Your  sentence  is 
quite  excessive.  I  can  well  understand  the  state  of 
mind  that  actuated  you,  a  young  enthusiast,  in  these 
exciting  times.  It  was  in  connection  with  Homestead, 
is  it  not  so,  m’  boy?” 

I  fall  back  into  the  chair,  shaken,  unmanned.  That 
deep  note  of  sympathy,  the  sincerity  of  the  trembling 
voice — no,  no,  I  cannot  touch  him.  .  .  . 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 


119 


III 

At  last,  mail  from  New  York!  Letters  from  the 
Girl  and  Fedya.  With  a  feeling  of  mixed  anxiety 
and  resentment,  I  gaze  at  the  familiar  handwriting. 
Why  didn’t  they  write  before?  The  edge  of  expectancy 
has  been  dulled  by  the  long  suspense.  The  Girl  and 
the  Twin,  my  closest,  most  intimate  friends  of  yesterday, 
— but  the  yesterday  seems  so  distant  in  the  past,  its  very 
reality  submerged  in  the  tide  of  soul-racking  events. 

There  is  a  note  of  disappointment,  almost  of  bitter¬ 
ness,  in  the  Girl’s  letter.  The  failure  of  my  act  will 
lessen  the  moral  effect,  and  diminish  its  propagandistic 
value.  The  situation  is  aggravated  by  Most.  Owing 
to  his  disparaging  attitude,  the  Germans  remain  in¬ 
different.  To  a  considerable  extent,  even  the  Jewish 
revolutionary  element  has  been  influenced  by  him.  The 
Twin,  in  veiled  and  abstruse  Russian,  hints  at  the  at¬ 
tempted  completion  of  my  work,  planned,  yet  impossible 
of  realization. 

I  smile  scornfully  at  the  “completion”  that  failed 
even  of  an  attempt.  The  damningly  false  viewpoint  of 
the  Girl  exasperates  me,  and  I  angrily  resent  the  dis¬ 
approving  surprise  I  sense  in  both  letters  at  my  continued 
existence. 

I  read  the  lines  repeatedly.  Every  word  drips 
bitterness  into  my  soul.  Have  I  grown  morbid,  or  do 
they  actually  presume  to  reproach  me  with  my  failure 
to  suicide?  By  what  right?  Impatiently  I  smother  the 
accusing  whisper  of  my  conscience,  “By  the  right  of 
revolutionary  ethics.”  The  will  to  live  leaps  into  being 
peremptorily,  more  compelling  and  imperative  at  the 
implied  challenge. 

No,  I  will  struggle  and  fight!  Friend  or  enemy, 
they  shall  learn  that  I  am  not  so  easily  done  for.  I  will 
live,  to  escape,  to  conquer! 


CHAPTER  III 


SPECTRAL  SILENCE 

The  silence  grows  more  oppressive,  the  solitude 
'unbearable.  My  natural  buoyancy  is  weighted  down  by 
a  nameless  dread.  With  dismay  I  realize  the  failing 
elasticity  of  my  step,  the  gradual  loss  of  mental  vivacity. 
I  feel  worn  in  body  and  soul. 

The  regular  tolling  of  the  gong,  calling  to  toil  or 
meals,  accentuates  the  enervating  routine.  It  sounds 
ominously  amid  the  stillness,  like  the  portent  of  some 
calamity,  horrible  and  sudden.  Unshaped  fears,  the 
more  terrifying  because  vague,  fill  my  heart.  In  vain 
I  seek  to  drown  my  riotous  thoughts  by  reading  and 
exercise.  The  walls  stand,  immovable  sentinels,  hemming 
me  in  on  every  side,  till  movement  grows  into  torture. 
In  the  constant  dusk  of  the  windowless  cell  the  letters 
dance  before  my  eyes,  now  forming  fantastic  figures, 
now  dissolving  into  corpses  and  images  of  death.  The 
morbid  pictures  fascinate  my  mind.  The  hissing  gas 
jet  in  the  corridor  irresistibly  attracts  me.  With  eyes 
half  shut,  I  follow  the  flickering  light.  Its  diffusing 
rays  form  a  kaleidoscope  of  variegated  pattern,  now 
crystallizing  into  scenes  of  my  youth,  now  converging 
upon  the  image  of  my  New  York  life,  with  grotesque 
illumination  of  the  tragic  moments.  Now  the  flame  is 
swept  by  a  gust  of  wind.  It  darts  hither  and  thither, 
angrily  contending  with  the  surrounding  darkness.  It 
whizzes  and  strikes  into  its  adversary,  who  falters,  then 

120 


SPECTRAL  SILENCE 


121 


advances  with  giant  shadow,  menacing  the  light  with 
frenzied  threats  on  the  whitewashed  wall.  Look!  The 
shadow  grows  and  grows,  till  it  mounts  the  iron  gates 
that  fall  heavily  behind  me,  as  the  officers  lead  me 
through  the  passage.  “You’re  home  now,”  the  guard 
mocks  me.  I  look  back.  The  gray  pile  looms  above  me, 
cold  and  forbidding,  and  on  its  crest  stands  the  black 
figure  leering  at  me  in  triumph.  The  walls  frown  upon 
me.  They  seem  human  in  their  cruel  immobility. 
Their  huge  arms  tower  into  the  night,  as  if  to  crush 
me  on  the  instant.  I  feel  so  small,  unutterably  weak 
and  defenceless  amid  all  the  loneliness, — the  breath  of 
the  grave  is  on  my  face,  it  draws  closer,  it  surrounds 
me,  and  shuts  the  last  rays  from  my  sight.  In  horror 
I  pause.  .  .  .  The  chain  grows  taut,  the  sharp  edges 
cut  into  my  wrist.  I  lurch  forward,  and  wake  on  the 
floor  of  the  cell. 

Restless  dream  and  nightmare  haunt  the  long  nights. 
I  listen  eagerly  for  the  tolling  of  the  gong,  bidding 
darkness  depart.  But  the  breaking  day  brings  neither 
hope  nor  gladness.  Gloomy  as  yesterday,  devoid  of 
interest  as  the  to-morrows  at  its  heels,  endlessly  dull  and 
leaden:  the  rumbling  carts,  with  their  loads  of  half- 
baked  bread ;  the  tasteless  brown  liquid ;  the  passing 
lines  of  striped  misery ;  the  coarse  commands ;  the  heavy 
tread;  and  then — the  silence  of  the  tomb. 

Why  continue  the  unprofitable  torture?  No  advan¬ 
tage  could  accrue  to  the  Cause  from  prolonging  this 
agony.  All  avenues  of  escape  are  closed ;  the  institu¬ 
tion  is  impregnable.  The  good  people  have  generously 
fortified  this  modern  bastille;  the  world  at  large  may 
sleep  in  peace,  undisturbed  by  the  anguish  of  Calvary. 
No  cry  of  tormented  soul  shall  pierce  these  walls  of 
stone,  much  less  the  heart  of  man.  Why,  then,  prolong 


122  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  agony?  None  heeds,  none  cares,  unless  perhaps 
my  comrades, — and  they  are  far  away  and  helpless. 

Helpless,  quite  helpless.  Ah,  if  our  movement  were 
strong,  the  enemy  would  not  dare  commit  such  outrages, 
knowing  that  quick  and  merciless  vengeance  would 
retaliate  for  injustice.  But  the  enemy  realizes  our  weak¬ 
ness.  To  our  everlasting  shame,  the  crime  of  Chicago 
has  not  yet  been  avenged.  Vae  victis!  They  shall 
forever  be  the  victims.  Only  might  is  respected ;  it  alone 
can  influence  tyrants.  Had  we  strength, — but  if  the 
judicial  murders  of  1887  failed  to  arouse  more  than 
passive  indignation,  can  I  expect  radical  developments 
in  consequence  of  my  brutally  excessive  sentence?  It 
is  unreasonable.  Five  years,  indeed,  have  passed  since 
the  Haymarket  tragedy.  Perhaps  the  People  have  since 
been  taught  in  the  bitter  school  of  oppression  and  defeat. 
Oh,  if  labor  would  realize  the  significance  of  my  deed, 
if  the  worker  would  understand  my  aims  and  motives, 
he  could  be  roused  to  strong  protest,  perhaps  to  active 
demand.  Ah,  yes !  But  when,  when  will  the  dullard 
realize  things?  When  will  he  open  his  eyes?  Blind 
to  his  own  slavery  and  degradation,  can  I  expect  him 
to  perceive  the  wrong  suffered  by  others?  And  who 
is  to  enlighten  him?  No  one  conceives  the  truth  as 
deeply  and  clearly  as  we  Anarchists.  Even  the  Socialists 
dare  not  advocate  the  whole,  unvarnished  truth.  They 
have  clothed  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  with  a  fig-leaf ; 
religion,  the  very  fountain-head  of  bigotry  and  injustice, 
has  officially  been  declared  Privatsache.  Henceforth 
these  timid  world-liberators  must  be  careful  not  to  tread 
upon  the  toes  of  prejudice  and  superstition.  Soon  they 
will  grow  to  bourgeois  respectability,  a  party  of  “prac¬ 
tical”  politics  and  “sound”  morality.  What  a  miserable 
descent  from  the  peaks  of  Nihilism  that  proclaimed 
defiance  of  all  established  institutions,  because  they  were 


SPECTRAL  SILENCE 


123 


established,  hence  wrong.  Indeed,  there  is  not  a  single 
institution  in  our  pseudo-civilization  that  deserves  to 
exist.  But  only  the  Anarchists  dare  wage  war  upon  all 
and  every  form  of  wrong,  and  they  are  few  in  number, 
lacking  in  power.  The  internal  divisions,  too,  aggravate 
our  weakness ;  and  now,  even  Most  has  turned  apostate. 
The  Jewish  comrades  will  be  influenced  by  his  attitude. 
Only  the  Girl  remains.  But  she  is  young  in  the  move¬ 
ment,  and  almost  unknown.  Undoubtedly  she  has  talent 
as  a  speaker,  but  she  is  a  woman,  in  rather  poor 
health.  In  all  the  movement,  I  know  of  no  one  capable 
of  propaganda  by  deed,  or  of  an  avenging  act,  except 
the  Twin.  At  least  I  can  expect  no  other  comrade  to 
undertake  the  dangerous  task  of  a  rescue.  The 
Twin  is  a  true  revolutionist;  somewhat  impulsive  and 
irresponsible,  perhaps,  with  slight  aristocratic  leanings, 
yet  quite  reliable  in  matters  of  revolutionary  import. 
But  he  would  not  harbor  the  thought.  We  held  such 
queer  notions  of  prison:  the  sight  of  a  police  uniform, 
an  arrest,  suggested  visions  of  a  bottomless  pit,  irrevo¬ 
cable  disappearance,  as  in  Russia.  How  can  I  broach 
the  subject  to  the  Twin?  All  mail  passes  through 
the  hands  of  the  censor;  my  correspondence,  especially 
— a  long-timer  and  an  Anarchist — will  be  minutely 
scrutinized.  There  seems  no  possibility.  I  am  buried 
alive  in  this  stone  grave.  Escape  is  hopeless.  And  this 
agony  of  living  death — I  cannot  support  it.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IV 


A  RAY  OF  LIGHT 


I  yearn  for  companionship.  Even  the  mere  sight 
of  a  human  form  is  a  relief.  Every  morning,  after 
breakfast,  I  eagerly  listen  for  the  familiar  swish-swash 
on  the  flagstones  of  the  hallway :  it  is  the  old  rangeman* 
“sweeping  up.”  The  sensitive  mouth  puckered  up  in 
an  inaudible  whistle,  the  one-armed  prisoner  swings  the 
broom  with  his  left,  the  top  of  the  handle  pressed  under 
the  armpit. 

“Hello,  Aleck!  How’re  you  feeling  to-day?” 

He  stands  opposite  my  cell,  at  the  further  end  of 
the  wall,  the  broom  suspended  in  mid-stroke.  I  catch 
an  occasional  glance  of  the  kind  blue  eyes,  while  his 
head  is  in  constant  motion,  turning  to  right  and  left, 
alert  for  the  approach  of  a  guard. 

“How’re  you,  Aleck?” 

“Oh,  nothing  extra.” 

“I  know  how  it  is,  Aleck,  I’ve  been  through  the 
mill.  Keep  up  your  nerve,  you’ll  be  all  right,  old  boy. 
You’re  young  yet.” 

“Old  enough  to  die,”  I  say,  bitterly. 

“S — sh !  Don’t  speak  so  loud.  The  screw’s  got 
long  ears.” 


*  Prisoner  taking  care  of  a  range  or  tier  of  cells. 

124 


A  RAY  OF  LIGHT 


125 


“The  screw  ?” 

A  wild  hope  trembles  in  my  heart.  The  “screw” ! 
The  puzzling  expression  in  the  mysterious  note, — perhaps 
this  man  wrote  it.  In  anxious  expectancy,  I  watch  the 
rangeman.  His  back  turned  toward  me,  head  bent,  he 
hurriedly  plies  the  broom  with  the  quick,  short  stroke 
of  the  one-armed  sweeper.  “S — sh !”  he  cautions,  with¬ 
out  turning,  as  he  crosses  the  line  of.  my  cell. 

I  listen  intently.  Not  a  sound,  save  the  regular 
swish-swash  of  the  broom.  But  the  more  practiced  ear 
of  the  old  prisoner  did  not  err.  A  long  shadow  falls 
across  the  hall.  The  tall  guard  of  the  malicious  eyes 
stands  at  my  door. 

“What  you  pryin’  out  for?”  he  demands. 

“I  am  not  prying.” 

“Don’t  you  contradict  me.  Stand  back  in  your  hole 
there.  Don’t  you  be  leanin’  on  th’  door,  d’ye  hear?” 

Down  the  hall  the  guard  shouts :  “Hey  you,  cripple ! 
Talkin’  there,  wasn’t  you?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“Don’t  you  dare  lie  to  me.  You  was.” 

“Swear  to  God  I  wasn’t.” 

“W-a-all,  if  I  ever  catch  you  talkin’  to  that  s - of 

a  b - ,  I’ll  fix  you.” 

The  scratching  of  the  broom  has  ceased.  The 
rangeman  is  dusting  the  doors.  The  even  strokes  of 
the  cat-o’-nine-tails  sound  nearer.  Again  the  man  stops 
at  my  door,  his  head  turning  right  and  left,  the  while 
he  diligently  plies  the  duster. 

s 

“Aleck,”  he  whispers,  “be  careful  of  that  screw. 
He’s  a  - .  See  him  jump  on  me?” 

“What  would  he  do  to  you  if  he  saw  you  talking 
to  me?” 


126  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


✓ 

'‘Throw  me  in  the  hole,  the  dungeon,  you  know. 
I’d  lose  my  job,  too.” 

“Then  better  don’t  talk  to  me.” 

“Oh,  I  ain’t  scared  of  him.  He  can’t  catch  me,  not 
he.  He  didn’t  see  me  talkin’;  just  bluffed.  Can’t  bluff 
me,  though.” 

“But  be  careful.” 

“It’s  all  right.  He’s  gone  out  in  the  yard  now.  He 
has  no  biz  in  the  block,*  anyhow,  ’cept  at  feedin’  time. 
He’s  jest  lookin’  for  trouble.  Mean  skunk  he  is,  that 
Cornbread  Tom.” 

“Who?” 

“That  screw  Fellings.  We  call  him  Cornbread 
Tom,  b’cause  he  swipes  our  corn  dodger.” 

“What’s  corn  dodger?” 

“Ha,  ha!  Toosdays  and  Satoordays  we  gets  a  chunk 
of  cornbread  for  breakfast.  It  ain’t  much,  but  better’n 
stale  punk.  Know  what  punk  is?  Not  long  on  lingo, 
are  you?  Punk’s  bread,  and  then  some  kids  is  punk.” 

He  chuckles,  merrily,  as  at  some  successful  bon  mot. 
Suddenly  he  pricks  up  his  ears,  and  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  warning,  tiptoes  away  from  the  cell.  In  a  few  min¬ 
utes  he  returns,  whispering: 

“All  O.  K.  Road’s  clear.  Tom’s  been  called  to  the 
shop.  Won’t  be  back  till  dinner,  thank  th’  Lord.  Only 
the  Cap  is  in  the  block,  old  man  Mitchell,  in  charge  of 
this  wing.  North  Block  it’s  called.” 

“The  women  are  in  the  South  Block?” 

“Nope.  Th’  girls  got  a  speshal  building.  South 
Block’s  th’  new  cell-house,  just  finished.  Crowded 
already,  an’  fresh  fish  cornin’  every  day.  Court’s  busy 
in  Pittsburgh  all  right.  Know  any  one  here?” 

“No.” 


*  Cell-house. 


A  RAY  OF  LIGHT 


127 


“Well,  get  acquainted,  Aleck.  It’ll  give  you  an 
interest.  Guess  that’s  what  you  need.  I  know  how  you 
feel,  boy.  Thought  I’d  die  when  I  landed  here.  Awful 
dump.  A  guy  advised  me  to  take  an  interest  an’  make 
friends.  I  thought  he  was  kiddin’  me,  but  he  was  on 
the  level,  all  right.  Get  acquainted,  Aleck;  you’ll  go 
bugs  if  you  don’t.  Must  vamoose  now.  See  you  later. 
My  name’s  Wingie.” 

“Wingie  ?” 

“That’s  what  they  call  me  here.  I’m  an  old  soldier; 
was  at  Bull  Run.  Run  so  damn  fast  I  lost  my  right 
wing,  hah,  hah,  hah !  S’long.” 

Eagerly  I  look  forward  to  the  stolen  talks  with 
Wingie.  They  are  the  sole  break  in  the  monotony  of 
my  life.  But  days  pass  without  the  exchange  of  a  word. 
Silently  the  one-armed  prisoner  walks  by,  apparently 
oblivious  of  my  existence,  while  with  bdating  heart  I 
peer  between  the  bars  for  a  cheering  sign  of  recognition. 
Only  the  quick  wink  of  his  eye  reassures  me  of 
his  interest,  and  gives  warning  of  the  spying  guard. 

By  degrees  the  ingenuity  of  Wingie  affords  us  more 
frequent  snatches  of  conversation,  and  I  gather  valuable 
information  about  the  prison.  The  inmates  sympa¬ 
thize  with  me,  Wingie  says.  They  know  I’m  “on  th’ 
level.”  I’m  sure  to  find  friends,  but  I  must  be  careful 
of  the  “stool  pigeons,”  who  report  everything  to  the 
officers.  Wingie  is  familiar  with  the  history  of  every 
keeper.  Most  of  them  are  “rotten,”  he  assures  me. 
Especially  the  Captain  of  the  night  watch  is  “fierce  an’ 
an  ex-fly.”*  Only  three  “screws”  are  on  night  duty 
in  each  block,  but  there  are  a  hundred  overseers  to 
“run  th’  dump”  during  the  day.  Wingie  promises  to 
be  my  friend,  and  to  furnish  “more  pointers  bymby.” 


*  Fly  or  fly-cop,  a  detective. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  SHOP 

I 

I  stand  in  line  with  a  dozen  prisoners,  in  the  ante¬ 
room  of  the  Deputy’s  office.  Humiliation  overcomes 
me  as  my  eye  falls,  for  the  first  time  in  the  full  light 
of  day,  upon  my  striped  clothes.  I  am  degraded  to  a 
beast!  My  first  impression  of  a  prisoner  in  stripes  is 
painfully  vivid :  he  resembled  a  dangerous  brute.  Some¬ 
how  the  idea  is  associated  in  my  mind  with  a  wild 
tigress, — and  I,  too,  must  now  look  like  that. 

The  door  of  the  rotunda  swings  open,  admitting  the 
tall,  lank  figure  of  the  Deputy  Warden. 

“Hands  up!” 

The  Deputy  slowly  passes  along  the  line,  examining 
a  hand  here  and  there.  He  separates  the  men  into 
groups ;  then,  pointing  to  the  one  in  which  I  am  included, 
he  says  in  his  feminine  accents: 

“None  crippled.  Officers,  take  them,  hm,  hm,  to 
Number  Seven.  Turn  them  over  to  Mr.  Hoods.” 

“Fall  in!  Forward,  march!” 

My  resentment  at  the  cattle-like  treatment  is  merged 
into  eager  expectation.  At  last  I  am  assigned  to  work! 
I  speculate  on  the  character  of  “Number  Seven,”  and 
on  the  possibilities  of  escape  from  there.  Flanked  by 
guards,  we  cross  the  prison  yard  in  close  lockstep.  The 
sentinels  on  the  wall,  their  rifles  resting  loosely  on 

128 


THE  SHOP 


129 


crooked  arm,  face  the  striped  line  winding  snakelike 
through  the  open  space.  The  yard  is  spacious  and  clean, 
the  lawn  well  kept  and  inviting.  The  first  breath  of 
fresh  air  in  two  weeks  violently  stimulates  my  longing 
for  liberty.  Perhaps  the  shop  will  offer  an  opportunity 
to  escape.  The  thought  quickens  my  observation. 
Bounded  north,  east,  and  south  by  the  stone  wall,  the 
two  blocks  of  the  cell-house  form  a  parallelogram,  en¬ 
closing  the  shops,  kitchen,  hospital,  and,  on  the  extreme 
south,  the  women’s  quarters. 

“Break  ranks !” 

We  enter  Number  Seven,  a  mat  shop.  With  difficulty 
I  distinguish  the  objects  in  the  dark,  low-ceilinged  room, 
with  its  small,  barred  windows.  The  air  is  heavy  with 
dust;  the  rattling  of  the  looms  is  deafening.  An 
atmosphere  of  noisy  gloom  pervades  the  place. 

The  officer  in  charge  assigns  me  to  a  machine 
occupied  by  a  lanky  prisoner  in  stripes.  “Jim,  show 
him  what  to  do.” 

Considerable  time  passes,  without  Jim  taking  the 
least  notice  of  me.  Bent  low  over  the  machine,  he 
seems  absorbed  in  the  work,  his  hands  deftly  manipulat¬ 
ing  the  shuttle,  his  foot  on  the  treadle.  Presently  he 
whispers,  hoarsely: 

“Fresh  fish?” 

“What  did  you  say?” 

“You  bloke,  long  here?” 

“Two  weeks.” 

“Wotcher  doin’?” 

“Twenty-one  years.” 

“Quitcher  kiddin’.” 

“It’s  true.” 

“Honest  ?  Holy  gee !” 

The  shuttle  flies  to  and  fro.  Jim  is  silent  for  a  while, 
then  he  demands,  abruptly: 


130  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Wat  dey  put  you  here  for?” 

“I  don’t  know.” 

“Been  kickin’?” 

“No.” 

“Den  you’se  bugs.” 

“Why  so  ?” 

“Dis  ’ere  is  crank  shop.  Dey  never  put  a  mug  ’ere 
’cept  he’s  bugs,  or  else  dey  got  it  in  for  you.” 

“How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?” 

“Me?  De  God  damn - got  it  in  for  me.  See  dis?” 

He  points  to  a  deep  gash  over  his  temple.  “Had  a  scrap 
wid  de  screws.  Almost  knocked  me  glimmer  out.  It 
was  dat  big  bull*  dere,  Pete  Hoods.  I’ll  get  even  wid 
him ,  all  right,  damn  his  rotten  soul.  I’ll  kill  him.  By 
God,  I  will.  I’ll  croak  ’ere,  anyhow.” 

“Perhaps  it  isn’t  so  bad,”  I  try  to  encourage  him. 

“It  ain’t,  eh?  Wat  d ’you  know  ’bout  it?  I’ve  got  the 
con  bad,  spittin’  blood  every  night.  Dis  dust’s  killin’ 
me.  Kill  you,  too,  damn  quick.” 

As  if  to  emphasize  his  words,  he  is  seized  with  a 
fit  of  coughing,  prolonged  and  hollow. 

The  shuttle  has  in  the  meantime  become  entangled 
in  the  fringes  of  the  matting.  Recovering  his  breath, 
Jim  snatches  the  knife  at  his  side,  and  with  a  few  deft 
strokes  releases  the  metal.  To  and  fro  flies  the  gleaming 
thing,  and  Jim  is  again  absorbed  in  his  task. 

“Don’t  bother  me  no  more,”  he  warns  me,  “I’m 
behind  wid  me  work.” 

Every  muscle  tense,  his  long  body  almost  stretched 
across  the  loom,  in  turn  pulling  and  pushing,  Jim  bends 
every  effort  to  hasten  the  completion  of  the  day’s  task. 

The  guard  approaches.  “How’s  he  doing?”  he 
inquires,  indicating  me  with  a  nod  of  the  head. 


*  Guard. 


THE  SHOP 


I3I 

“He’s  all  right.  But  say,  Hoods,  dis  ’ere  is  no  place 
for  de  kid.  He’s  got  a  twenty-one  spot.”  * 

“Shut  your  damned  trap !”  the  officer  retorts,  angrily. 
The  consumptive  bends  over  his  work,  fearfully  eyeing 
the  keeper’s  measuring  stick. 

As  the  officer  turns  away,  Jim  pleads: 

“Mr.  Hoods,  I  lose  time  teachin’.  Won’t  you  please 
take  off  a  bit?  De  task  is  more’n  I  can  do,  an’  I’m  sick.” 

“Nonsense.  There’s  nothing  the  matter  with  you, 
Jim.  You’re  just  lazy,  that’s  what  you  are.  Don’t  be 
shamming,* now.  It  don’t  go  with  me.” 

At  noon  the  overseer  calls  me  aside.  “You  are  green 
here,”  he  warns  me,  “pay  no  attention  to  Jim.  He 
wanted  to  be  bad,  but  we  showed  him  different.  He’s 
all  right  now.  You  have  a  long  time ;  see  that  you  behave 
yourself.  This  is  no  playhouse,  you  understand?” 

As  I  am  about  to  resume  my  place  in  the  line  forming 
to  march  back  to  the  cells  for  dinner,  he  recalls  me: 

“Say,  Aleck,  you’d  better  keep  an  eye  on  that  fellow 
Jim.  He  is  a  little  off,  you  know.” 

He  points  toward  my  head,  with  a  significant  rotary 
motion. 

* 

II 

The  mat  shop  is  beginning  to  affect  my  health :  the 
dust  has  inflamed  my  throat,  and  my  eyesight  is  weak¬ 
ening  in  the  constant  dusk.  *  The  officer  in  charge  has 
repeatedly  expressed  dissatisfaction  with  my  slow 
progress  in  the  work.  “I’ll  give  you  another  chance,” 
he  cautioned  me  yesterday,  “and  if  you  don’t  make  a 
good  mat  by  next  week,  down  in  the  hole  you  go.”  He 
severely  upbraided  Jim  for  his  inefficiency  as  instructor. 


*  Sentence. 


132  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


As  the  consumptive  was  about  to  reply,  he  suffered  an 
attack  of  coughing.  The  emaciated  face  turned  greenish- 
yellow,  but  in  a  moment  he  seemed  to  recover,  and 
continued  working.  Suddenly  I  saw  him  clutch  at  the 
frame,  a  look  of  terror  spread  over  his  face,  he  began 
panting  for  breath,  and  then  a  stream  of  dark  blood 
gushed  from  his  mouth,  and  Jim  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  steady  whir  of  the  looms  continued.  The  pris¬ 
oner  at  the  neighboring  machine  cast  a  furtive  look  at 
the  prostrate  form,  and  bent  lower  over  his  work.  Jim 
lay  motionless,  the  blood  dyeing  the  floor  purple.  I 
rushed  to  the  officer. 

“Mr.  Hoods,  Jim  has — ”  . 

“Back  to  your  place,  damn  you!”  he  shouted  at  me. 
“How  dare  you  leave  it  without  permission?” 

“I  just—” 

“Get  back,  I  tell  you!”  he  roared,  raising  the  heavy 
stick. 

I  returned  to  my  place.  Jim  lay  very  still,  his  lips 
parted,  his  face  ashen. 

Slowly,  with  measured  step,  the  officer  approached. 

“What’s  the  matter  here?” 

I  pointed  at  Jim.  The  guard  glanced  at  the  uncon¬ 
scious  man,  then  lightly  touched  the  bleeding  face  with 
his  foot. 

“Get  up,  Jim,  get  up !” 

The  nerveless  head  rolled  to  the  side,  striking  the  leg 
of  the  loom. 

“Guess  he  isn’t  shamming,”  the  officer  muttered. 
Then  he  shook  his  finger  at  me,  menacingly:  “Don’t 
you  ever  leave  your  place  without  orders.  Remember, 

you!” 

After  a  long  delay,  causing  me  to  fear  that  Jim  had 
been  forgotten,  the  doctor  arrived.  It  was  Mr.  Rankin, 
the  senior  prison  physician,  a  short,  stocky  man  of 


THE  SHOP 


133 


advanced  middle  age,  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his 
eye.  He  ordered  the  sick  prisoner  taken  to  the  hospital. 
“Did  any  one  see  the  man  fall  ?”  he  inquired. 

“This  man  did,”  the  keeper  replied,  indicating  me. 

While  I  was  explaining,  the  doctor  eyed  me  curiously. 
Presently  he  asked  my  name.  “Oh,  the  celebrated  case,” 
he  smiled.  “I  know  Mr.  Frick  quite  well.  Not  such  a 
bad  man,  at  all.  But  you’ll  be  treated  well  here,  Mr. 
Berkman.  This  is  a  democratic  institution,  you  know. 
By  the  way,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  eyes?  They 
are  inflamed.  Always  that  way?” 

“Only  since  I  am  working  in  this  shop.” 

“Oh,  he  is  all  right,  Doctor,”  the  officer  interposed. 
“He’s  only  been  here  a  week.” 

Mr.  Rankin  cast  a  quizzical  look  at  the  guard. 

“You  want  him  here?” 

“Y-e-s :  we’re  short  of  men.” 

“Well,  /  am  the  doctor,  Mr.  Hoods.”  Then,  turning 
to  me,  he  added :  “Report  in  the  morning  on  sick  list.” 

Ill 

The  doctor’s  examination  has  resulted  in  my  removal 
to  the  hosiery  department.  The  change  has  filled  me 
with  renewed  hope.  A  disciplinary  shop,  to  which  are 
generally  assigned  the  “hard  cases” — inmates  in  the  first 
stages  of  mental  derangement,  or  exceptionally  unruly 
prisoners — the  mat  shop  is  the  point  of  special  super¬ 
vision  and  severest  discipline.  It  is  the  best-guarded 
shop,  from  which  escape  is  impossible.  But  in  the 
hosiery  department,  a  recent  addition  to  the  local  indus¬ 
tries,  I  may  find  the  right  opportunity.  It  will  require 
time,  of  course;  but  my  patience  shall  be  equal  to  the 
great  object.  The  working  conditions,  also,  are  more 
favorable:  the  room  is  light  and  airy,  the  discipline  not 


134  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


so  stringent.  My  near-sightedness  has  secured  for  me 
immunity  from  machine  work.  The  Deputy  at  first 
insisted  that  my  eyes  were  “good  enough”  to  see  the 
numerous  needles  of  the  hosiery  machine.  It  is  true,  I 
could  see  them;  but  not  with  sufficient  distinctness  to 
insure  the  proper  insertion  of  the  initial  threads.  To 
admit  partial  ability  would  result,  I  knew,  in  being 
ordered  to  produce  the  task ;  and  failure,  or  faulty  work, 
would  be  severely  punished.  Necessity  drove  me  to  sub¬ 
terfuge:  I  pretended  total  inability  to  distinguish  the 
needles.  Repeated  threats  of  punishment  failing  to 
change  my  determination,  I  have  been  assigned  the  com¬ 
paratively  easy  work  of  “turning”  the  stockings.  The  oc¬ 
cupation,  though  tedious,  is  not  exacting.  It  consists  in 
gathering  the  hosiery  manufactured  by  the  knitting  ma¬ 
chines,  whence  the  product  issues  without  soles.  I  carry 
the  pile  to  the  table  provided  with  an  iron  post,  about 
eighteen  inches  high,  topped  with  a  small  inverted  disk. 
On  this  instrument  the  stockings  are  turned  “inside  out” 
by  slipping  the  article  over  the  post,  then  quickly  “un¬ 
dressing”  it.  The  hosiery  thus  “turned”  is  forwarded  to 
the  looping  machines,  by  which  the  product  is  finished 
and  sent  back  to  me,  once  more  to  be  “turned,”  prepara¬ 
tory  to  sorting  and  shipment. 

Monotonously  the  days  and  weeks  pass  by.  Prac¬ 
tice  lends  me  great  dexterity  in  the  work,  but  the  hours 
of  drudgery  drag  with  heavy  heel.  I  seek  to  hasten 
time  by  forcing  myself  to  take  an  interest  in  the  task.  I 
count  the  stockings  I  turn,  the  motions  required  by  each 
operation,  and  the  amount  accomplished  within  a  given 
time.  But  in  spite  of  these  efforts,  my  mind  persistently 
reverts  to  unprofitable  subjects:  my  friends  and  the 
propaganda;  the  terrible  injustice  of  my  excessive  sen¬ 
tence;  suicide  and  escape. 


THE  SHOP 


135 


My  nights  are  restless.  Oppressed  with  a  nameless 
weight,  or  tormented  by  dread,  I  awake  with  a  start, 
breathless  and  affrighted,  to  experience  the  momentary 
relief  of  danger  past.  But  the  next  instant  I  am  over¬ 
whelmed  by  the  consciousness  of  my  surroundings,  and 
plunged  into  rage  and  despair,  powerless,  hopeless. 

Thus  day  succeeds  night,  and  night  succeeds  day,  in 
the  ceaseless  struggle  of  hope  and  discouragement,  of 
life  and  death,  amid  the  externally  placid  tenor  of  my 
Pennsylvania  nightmare. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MY  FIRST  LETTER 

I 


Direct  to  Box  A  7, 
Allegheny  City,  Pa., 
October  19th,  1892. 

Dear  Sister  :* 

It  is  just  a  month,  a  month  to-day,  since  my  coming  here. 
I  keep  wondering,  can  such  a  world  of  misery  and  torture  be 
compressed  into  one  short  month?  .  .  .  How  I  have  longed  for 
this  opportunity!  You  will  understand:  a  month’s  stay  is  re¬ 
quired  before  we  are  permitted  to  write.  But  many,  many  long 
letters  I  have  written  to  you — in  my  mind,  dear  Sonya.  Where 
shall  I  begin  now?  My  space  is  very  limited,  and  I  have  so 
much  to  say  to  you  and  to  the  Twin. — I  received  your  letters. 
You  need  not  wait  till  you  hear  from  me:  keep  on  writing.  I 
am  allowed  to  receive  all  mail  sent,  “of  moral  contents,”  in  the 
phraseology  of  the  rules.  And  I  shall  write  whenever  I  may. 

Dear  Sonya,  I  sense  bitterness  and  disappointment  in  your 
letter.  Why  do  you  speak  of  failure?  You,  at  least,  you  and 
Fedya,  should  not  have  your  judgment  obscured  by  the  mere 
accident  of  physical  results.  Your  lines  pained  and  grieved  me 
beyond  words.  Not  because  you  should  write  thus;  but  that 
you,  even  you,  should  think  thus.  Need  I  enlarge?  True 
morality  deals  with  motives,  not  consequences.  I  cannot  believe 
that  we  differ  on  this  point. 

I  fully  understand  what  a  terrible  blow  the  apostasy  of 
Wurstf  must  have  been  to  you.  But  however  it  may  minimize 

*  The  Girl ;  also  referred  to  as  Sonya,  Musick,  and  Sailor. 

t  John  Most. 


136 


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FACSIMILE  OF  PRISON  LETTER,  REDUCED  ONE-THIRD 


MY  FIRST  LETTER 


137 


the  effect,  it  cannot  possibly  alter  the  fact,  or  its  character. 
This  you  seem  to  have  lost  sight  of.  In  spite  of  Wurst,  a  great 
deal  could  have  been  accomplished.  I  don’t  know  whether  it 
has  been  done :  your  letter  is  very  meagre  on  this  point.  Yet 
it  is  of  supreme  interest  to  me.  But  I  know,  Sonya, — of  this 
one  thing,  at  least,  I  am  sure — you  will  do  all  that  is  in  your 
power.  Perhaps  it  is  not  much — but  the  Twin  and  part  of 
Orchard  Street*  will  be  with  you. 

Why  that  note  of  disappointment,  almost  of  resentment, 
as  to  Tolstogub’s  relation  to  the  Darwinian  theory  ?+  You 
must  consider  that  the  layman  cannot  judge  of  the  intricacies 
of  scientific  hypotheses.  The  scientist  would  justly  object  to 
such  presumption. 

I  embrace  you  both.  The  future  is  dark;  but,  then,  who 
knows?  .  .  .  Write  often.  Tell  me  about  the  movement,  your¬ 
self  and  friends.  It  will  help  to  keep  me  in  touch  with  the 
outside  world,  which  daily  seems  to  recede  further.  I  clutch 
desperately  at  the  thread  that  still  binds  me  to  the  living — it 
seems  to  unravel  in  my  hands,  the  thin  skeins  are  breaking, 
one  by  one.  My  hold  is  slackening.  But  the  Sonya  thread,  I 
know,  will  remain  taut  and  strong.  I  have  always  called  you 
the  Immutable.  Alex. 


II 

I  posted  the  letter  in  the  prisoners’  mail-box  when 
the  line  formed  for  work  this  morning.  But  the  moment 
the  missive  left  my  hands,  I  was  seized  with  a  great 
longing.  Oh,  if  some  occult  means  would  transform  me 
into  that  slip  of  paper!  I  should  now  be  hidden  in  that 
green  box — with  bated  breath  I’d  flatten  myself  in  the 
darkest  recess,  and  wait  for  the  Chaplain  to  collect  the 
mail . 


*  54  Orchard  Street— the  hall  in  which  the  first  Jewish  An¬ 
archist  gatherings  were  held  in  New  York.  An  allusion  to  the 
aid  of  the  Jewish  comrades. 

t  Tolstogub — the  author’s  Russian  nickname.  The  ex¬ 
pression  signifies  the  continued  survival  of  the  writer. 


138  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

My  heart  beats  tumultuously  as  the  wild  fancy  flutters 
in  my  brain.  I  am  oblivious  of  the  forming  lines,  the 
sharp  commands,  the  heavy  tread.  Automatically  I  turn 
the  hosiery,  counting  one,  two,  one  pair ;  three,  four,  two 
pair.  Whose  voice  is  it  I  hear?  I  surely  know  the 
man — there  is  something  familiar  about  him.  He  bends 
over  the  looping  machines  and  gathers  the  stockings. 
Now  he  is  counting :  one,  two,  one  pair ;  three,  four,  two 
pair.  Just  like  myself.  Why,  he  looks  like  myself !  And 
the  men  all  seem  to  think  it  is  I.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  the  officer, 
also.  I  just  heard  him  say,  “Aleck,  work  a  little  faster, 
can’t  you?  See  the  piles  there,  you’re  falling  behind.” 
He  thinks  it’s  I.  What  a  clever  substitution!  And  all 
the  while  the  real  “me”  is  snugly  lying  here  in  the  green 
box,  peeping  through  the  keyhole,  on  the  watch  for 
the  postman.  S-sh !  I  hear  a  footstep.  Perhaps  it  is 
the  Chaplain :  he  will  open  the  box  with  his  quick, 
nervous  hands,  seize  a  handful  of  letters,  and  thrust  them 
into  the  large  pocket  of  his  black  serge  coat.  There  are 
so  many  letters  here — I’ll  slip  among  them  into  the  large 
pocket — the  Chaplain  will  not  notice  me.  He’ll  think  it’s 
just  a  letter,  ha,  ha!  He’ll  scrutinize  every  word,  for  it’s 
the  letter  of  a  long-timer;  his  first  one,  too.  But  I  am 
safe,  I’m  invisible;  and  when  they  call  the  roll,  they  will 
take  that  man  there  for  me.  He  is  counting  nineteen, 
twenty,  ten  pair;  twenty-one,  twenty-two  .  .  .  What 
was  that?  Twenty-two — oh,  yes,  twenty-two,  that’s  my 
sentence.  The  imbeciles,  they  think  I  am  going  to  serve 
it.  I’d  kill  myself  first.  But  it  will  not  be  necessary, 
thank  goodness !  It  was  such  a  lucky  thought,  this  going 
out  in  my  letter.  But  what  has  become  of  the  Chaplain  ? 
If  he’d  only  come — why  is  he  so  long?  They  might  miss 
me  in  the  shop.  No,  no!  that  man  is  there — he  is  turning 
the  stockings — they  don’t  know  I  am  here  in  the  box. 
The  Chaplain  won’t  know  it,  either:  I  am  invisible;  he’ll 


MY  FIRST  LETTER 


139 


think  it’s  a  letter  when  he  puts  me  in  his  pocket,  and  then 
he’ll  seal  me  in  an  envelope  and  address — I  must  flatten 
myself  so  his  hand  shouldn’t  feel — and  he’ll  address  me  to 
Sonya.  He’ll  not  know  whom  he  is  sending  to  her — he 
doesn’t  know  who  she  is,  either — the  Deckadresse  is 
splendid — we  must  keep  it  up.  Keep  it  up?  Why?  It 
will  not  be  necessary :  after  he  mails  me,  we  don’t  need  to 
write  any  more — it  is  well,  too — I  have  so  much  to  tell 
Sonya — and  it  wouldn’t  pass  the  censor.  But  it’s  all 
right  now — they’ll  throw  the  letters  into  the  mail-carrier’s 
bag — there’ll  be  many  of  them — this  is  general  letter  day. 
I’ll  hide  in  the  pile,  and  they’ll  pass  me  through  the  post- 
office,  on  to  New  York.  Dear,  dear  New  York!  I  have 
been  away  so  long.  Only  a  month?  Well,  I  must  be 
patient — and  not  breathe  so  loud.  When  I  get  to  New 
York,  I  shall  not  go  at  once  into  the  house — Sonya  might 
get  frightened.  I’ll  first  peep  in  through  the  window — I 
wonder  what  she’ll  be  doing — and  who  will  be  at  home? 
Yes,  Fedya  will  be  there,  and  perhaps  Claus  and  Sep. 
How  surprised  they’ll  all  be !  Sonya  will  embrace  me — 
she’ll  throw  her  arms  around  my  neck — they’ll' feel  so 
soft  and  warm — 

“Hey,  there!  Are  you  deaf?  Fall  in  line!” 

Dazed,  bewildered,  I  see  the  angry  face  of  the  guard 
before  me.  The  striped  men  pass  me,  enveloped  in  a 
mist.  I  grasp  the  “turner.”  The  iron  feels  cold.  Chills 
shake  my  frame,  and  the  bundle  of  hosiery  drops  from 
my  hand. 

“Fall  in  line,  I  tell  you !” 

“Sucker!”  some  one  hisses  behind  me.  “Workin’ 
after  whistle.  ’Fraid  you  won’t  get  ’nough  in  yer  twenty- 
two  spot,  eh?  You  sucker,  you!” 


CHAPTER  VII 


WINGIE 

The  hours  at  work  help  to  dull  the  acute  conscious¬ 
ness  of  my  environment.  The  hosiery  department  is 
past  the  stage  of  experiment;  the  introduction  of  addi¬ 
tional  knitting  machines  has  enlarged  my  task,  necessi¬ 
tating  increased  effort  and  more  sedulous  application. 

The  shop  routine  now  demands  all  my  attention.  It 
leaves  little  time  for  thinking  or  brooding.  My  physical 
condition  alarms  me :  the  morning  hours  completely 
exhaust  me,  and  I  am  barely  able  to  keep  up  with  the 
line  returning  to  the  cell-house  for  the  noon  meal.  A 
feeling  of  lassitude  possesses  me,  my  feet  drag  heavily, 
and  I  experience  great  difficulty  in  mastering  my 
sleepiness. 

I  have  grown  indifferent  to  the  meals;  the  odor  of 
food  nauseates  me.  I  am  nervous  and  morbid :  the  sight 
of  a  striped  prisoner  disgusts  me;  the  proximity  of  a 
guard  enrages  me.  The  shop  officer  has  repeatedly 
warned  me  against  my  disrespectful  and  surly  manner. 
But  I  am  indifferent  to  consequences :  what  matter  what 
happens  ?  My  waning  strength  is  a  source  of  satisfaction : 
perhaps  it  indicates  the  approach  of  death.  The  thought 
pleases  me  in  a  quiet,  impersonal  way.  There  will  be 
no  more  suffering,  no  anguish.  The  world  at  large  is 
non-existent ;  it  is  centered  in  Me ;  and  yet  I  myself  stand 
aloof,  and  see  it  falling  into  gradual  peace  and  quiet,  into 
extinction. 


WINGIE 


141 

Back  in  my  cell  after  the  day’s  work,  I  leave  the 
evening  meal  of  bread  and  coffee  untouched.  My  candle 
remains  unlit.  I  sit  listlessly  in  the  gathering  dusk,  con¬ 
scious  only  of  the  longing  to  hear  the  gong’s  deep 
bass, — the  three  bells  tolling  the  order  to  retire.  I 
welcome  the  blessed  permission  to  fall  into  bed.  The 
coarse  straw  mattress  beckons  invitingly;  I  yearn  for 
sleep,  for  oblivion. 

Occasional  mail  from  friends  rouses  me  from  my 
apathy.  But  the  awakening  is  brief :  the  tone  of  the  let¬ 
ters  is  guarded,  their  contents  too  general  in  character, 
the  matters  that  might  kindle  my  interest  are  missing. 
The  world  and  its  problems  are  drifting  from  my  horizon. 
I  am  cast  into  the  darkness.  No  ray  of  sunshine  holds 
out  the  promise  of  spring. 


V 

At  times  the  realization  of  my  fate  is  borne  in  upon 
me  with  the  violence  of  a  shock,  and  I  am  engulfed  in 
despair,  now  threatening  to  break  down  the  barriers  of 
sanity,  now  affording  melancholy  satisfaction  in  the  wild 
play  of  fancy.  .  .  .  Existence  grows  more  and  more 
unbearable  with  the  contrast  of  dream  and  reality. 
Weary  of  the  day’s  routine,  I  welcome  the  solitude  of  the 
cell,  impatient  even  of  the  greeting  of  the  passing  convict. 
I  shrink  from  the  uninvited  familiarity  of  these  men, 
the  horizontal  gray  and  black  constantly  reviving  the 
image  of  the  tigress,  with  her  stealthy,  vicious  cunning. 
They  are  not  of  my  world.  I  would  aid  them,  as  in 
duty  bound  to  the  victims  of  social  injustice.  But  I 
cannot  be  friends  with  them :  they  do  not  belong  to  the 
People,  to  whose  service  my  life  is  consecrated.  Un¬ 
fortunates,  indeed ;  yet  parasites  upon  the  producers,  less 
in  degree,  but  no  less  in  kind  than  the  rich  exploiters.  By 
virtue  of  my  principles,  rather  than  their  deserts,  I  must 


142  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OB  AN  ANARCHIST 


give  them  my  intellectual  sympathy ;  they  touch  no  chord 
in  my  heart. 

Only  Wingie  seems  different.  There  is  a  gentle  note 
about  his  manner  that  breathes  cheer  and  encouragement. 
Often  I  long  for  his  presence,  yet  he  seldom  finds  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  talk  with  me,  save  Sundays  during  church 
service,  when  I  remain  in  the  cell.  Perhaps  I  may  see 
him  to-day.  He  must  be  careful  of  the  Block  Captain, 
on  his  rounds  of  the  galleries,  counting  the  church  delin¬ 
quents.*  The  Captain  is  passing  on  the  range  now.  I 
recognize  the  uncertain  step,  instantly  ready  to  halt  at  the 
sight  of  a  face  behind  the  bars.  Now  he  is  at  the  cell. 
He  pencils  in  his  note-book  the  number  on  the  wooden 
block  over  the  door,  A  7. 

“Catholic  ?”  he  asks,  mechanically.  Then,  looking  up, 
he  frowns  on  me. 

“You're  no  Catholic,  Berkman.  What  d’you  stay 
in  for?” 

“I  am  an  atheist.” 

“A  what?” 

“An  atheist,  a  non-believer.” 

“Oh,  an  infidel,  are  you?  You’ll  be  damned,  shore 
’nough.” 

The  wooden  stairs  creak  beneath  the  officer’s  weight. 
He  has  turned  the  corner.  Wingie  will  take  advantage 
now.  I  hope  he  will  come  soon.  Perhaps  somebody  is 
watching — 

“Hello,  Aleck !  Want  a  piece  of  pie?  Here,  grab  it !” 
*  » 

“Pie,  Wingie?”  I  whisper  wonderingly.  “Where  do 
you  get  such  luxuries?” 

“Swiped  from  the  screw’s  poke,  Cornbread  Tom’s 

*  Inmates  of  Catholic  faith  are  excused  from  attending 
Protestant  service,  and  vice  versa. 


WINGIE 


143 


dinner-basket,  you  know.  The  cheap  guy  saved  it  after 
breakfast.  Rotten,  ain’t  he  ?” 

“Why  so  ?” 

“Why,  you  greenie,  he’s  a  stomach  robber,  that’s  what 
he  is.  It’s  our  pie,  Aleck,  made  here  in  the  bakery. 
That’s  why  our  punk  is  stale,  see ;  they  steals  the  east*  to 
make  pies  for  th’  screws.  Are  you  next?  How  d’  you 
like  the  grub,  anyhow  ?” 

“The  bread  is  generally  stale,  Wingie.  And  the  coffee 
tastes  like  tepid  water.” 

“Coffee  you  call  it?  He,  he,  coffee  hell.  It  ain’t  no 
damn  coffee;  ’tnever  was  near  coffee.  It’s  just  bootleg, 
Aleck,  bootleg.  Know  how’t’s  made?” 

“No.” 

“Well,  I  been  three  months  in  th’  kitchen.  You  c’llect 
all  the  old  punk  that  the  cons  dump  out  with  their  dinner 
pans.  Only  the  crust’s  used,  see.  Like  as  not  some  syph 
coon  spit  on ’t.  Some’s  mean  enough  to  do’t,  you  know. 
Makes  no  diff,  though.  Orders  is,  cut  off  th’  crusts  an’ 
burn  ’em  to  a  good  black  crisp.  Then  you  pour  boiling 
water  over  it  an’  dump  it  in  th’  kettle,  inside  a  bag,  you' 
know,  an’  throw  a  little  dirty  chic’ry  in — there’s  your 
coffee.  I  never  touch  th’  rotten  stuff.  It  rooins  your 
stummick,  that’s  what  it  does,  Aleck.  You  oughtn’t  drink 
th’  swill.” 

“I  don’t  care  if  it  kills  me.” 

“Come,  come,  Aleck.  Cheer  up,  old  boy.  You  got  a 
tough  bit,  I  know,  but  don’  take  it  so  hard.  Don’  think 
of  your  time.  Forget  it.  Oh,  yes,  you  can;  you  jest 
take  my  word  for’t.  Make  some  friends.  Think  who 
you  wan’  to  see  to-morrow,  then  try  t’  see  ’m.  That’s 
what  you  wan’  to  do,  Aleck.  It’ll  keep  you  hustlin’.  Best 
thing  for  the  blues,  kiddie.” 


*  Yeast. 


144  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


For  a  moment  he  pauses  in  his  hurried  whisper.  The 
soft  eyes  are  full  of  sympathy,  the  lips  smile  encourag¬ 
ingly.  He  leans  the  broom  against  the  door,  glances 
quickly  around,  hesitates  an  instant,  and  then  deftly  slips 
a  slender,  delicate  hand  between  the  bars,  and  gives  my 
cheek  a  tender  pat. 

Involuntarily  I  step  back,  with  the  instinctive  dislike 
of  a  man’s  caress.  Yet  I  would  not  offend  my  kind 
friend.  But  Wingie  must  have  noticed  my  annoyance: 
he  eyes  me  critically,  wonderingly.  Presently  picking  up 
the  broom,  he  says  with  a  touch  of  diffidence : 

“You  are  all  right,  Aleck.  I  like  ycu  for  ’t.  Jest 
wanted  t’  try  you,  see?” 

“How  ‘try  me,’  Wingie  ?” 

“Oh,  you  ain’t  next?  Well,  you  see — ”  he  hesitates, 
a  faint  flush  .stealing  over  his  prison  pallor,  “you  see, 
Aleck,  it’s — oh,  wait  till  I  pipe  th’  screw.” 

Poor  Wingie,  the  ruse  is  too  transparent  to  hide  his 
embarrassment.  I  can  distinctly  follow  the  step  of  the 
Block  Captain  on  the  upper  galleries.  He  is  the  sole 
officer  in  the  cell-house  during  church  service.  The  un¬ 
locking  of  the  yard  door  would  apprise  us  of  the  entrance 
of  a  guard,  before  the  latter  could  observe  Wingie  at  my 
cell. 

I  ponder  over  the  flimsy  excuse.  Why  did  Wingie 
leave  me?  His  flushed  face,  the  halting  speech  of  the 
usually  loquacious  rangeman,  the  subterfuge  employed  to 
“sneak  off,” — as  he  himself  would  characterize  his  hasty 
departure, — all  seem  very  peculiar.  What  could  he  have 
meant  by  “trying”  me  ?  But  before  I  have  time  to  evolve 
a  satisfactory  explanation,  I  hear  Wingie  tiptoeing  back. 

“It’s  all  right,  Aleck.  They  won’t  come  from  the 
chapel  for  a  good  while  yet.” 

“What  did  you  mean  by  ‘trying’  me,  Wingie?” 

“Oh,  well,”  he  stammers,  “never  min’,  Aleck.  You 


WINGIE 


145 


are  a  good  boy,  all  right.  You  don’t  belong  here,  that’s 
what  I  say.” 

“Well,  I  am  here;  and  the  chances  are  I’ll  die  here.” 

“Now,  don’t  talk  so  foolish,  boy.  I  ’lowed  you  looked 
down  at  the  mouth.  Now,  don’t  you  fill  your  head  with 
such  stuff  an’  nonsense.  Croak  here,  hell!  You  ain’t 
goin’  t’do  nothin’  of  the  kind.  Don’t  you  go  broodin’, 
now.  You  listen  t’me,  Aleck,  that’s  your  friend  talkin’, 
see?  You’re  so  young,  why,  you’re  just  a  kid.  Twenty- 
one,  ain’t  you  ?  An’  talkin’  about  dyin’ !  Shame  on 
you,  shame !” 

His  manner  is  angry,  but  the  tremor  in  his  voice  sends 
a  ray  of  warmth  to  my  heart.  Impulsively  I  put  my  hand 
between  the  bars.  His  firm  clasp  assures  me  of  returned 
appreciation. 

“You  must  brace  up,  Aleck.  Look  at  the  lifers. 
You’d  think  they’d  be  black  as  night.  Nit,  my  boy,  the 
j oiliest  lot  in  th’  dump.  You  seen  old  Henry?  No? 
Well,  you  ought’  see  ’im.  He’s  the  oldest  man  here;  in 
fifteen  years.  A  lifer,  an’  hasn’t  a  friend  in  th’  woild, 
but  he’s  happy  as  th’  day’s  long.  An’  you  got  plenty 
friends;  true  blue,  too.  I  know  you  have.” 

“I  have,  Wingie.  But  what  could  they  do  for  me  ?” 

“How  you  talk,  Aleck.  Could  do  anythin’.  You 
got  rich  friends,  I  know.  You  was  mixed  up  with  Frick. 
Well,  your  friends  are  all  right,  ain’t  they?” 

“Of  course.  What  could  they  do,  Wingie?” 

“Get  you  pard’n,  in  two,  three  years  may  be,  see? 
You  must  make  a  good  record  here.” 

“Oh,  I  don’t  care  for  a  pardon.” 

“Wha-a-t?  You’re  kiddin’.” 

“No,  Wingie,  quite  seriously.  I  am  opposed  to  it  on 
principle.” 

“You’re  sure  bugs.  What  you  talkin’  ’bout?  Prin¬ 
ciple  fiddlesticks.  Want  to  get  out  o’  here?” 


146  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

“Of  course  I  do.” 

“Well,  then,  quit  your  principle  racket.  What’s 
principle  got  t’  do  with  ’t?  Your  principle’s  ’gainst  get- 
tin’  out?” 

“No,  but  against  being  pardoned.” 

“You’re  beyond  me,  Aleck.  Guess  you’re  joshin’  me.” 

“Now  listen,  Wingie.  You  see,  I  wouldn’t  apply  for 
a  pardon,  because  it  would  be  asking  favors  from  the 
government,  and  I  am  against  it,  you  understand?  It 
would  be  of  no  use,  anyhow,  Wingie.” 

“An’  if  you  could  get  a  pard’n  for  the  askin’,  you 
won’t  ask,  Aleck.  That’s  what  you  mean  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re  hot  stuff,  Aleck.  What  they  call  you,  Nar- 
chist  ?  Hot  stuff,  by  gosh !  Can’t  make  you  out,  though. 
Seems  daffy.  Lis’n  t’  me,  Aleck.  If  I  was  you,  I’d  take 
anythin’  I  could  get,  an’  then  tell  ’em  to  go  t’hell.  That’s 
what  I  would  do,  my  boy.” 

He  looks  at  me  quizzically,  searchingly.  The  faint 
echo  of  the  Captain’s  step  reaches  us  from  a  gallery  on 
the  opposite  side.  With  a  quick  glance  to  right  and  left, 
Wingie  leans  over  toward  the  door.  His  mouth  between 
the  bars,  he  whispers  very  low-: 

“Principles  opposed  to  a  get-a-way,  Aleck?” 

The  sudden  question  bewilders  me.  The  instinct  of 
liberty,  my  revolutionary  spirit,  the  misery  of  my  exist¬ 
ence,  all  flame  into  being,  rousing  a  wild,  tumultuous 
beating  of  my  heart,  pervading  my  whole  being  with  hope, 
intense  to  the  point  of  pain.  I  remain  silent.  Is  it  safe  to 
trust  him  ?  He  seems  kind  and  sympathetic — 

“You  may  trust  me,  Aleck,”  Wingie  whispers,  as  if 
reading  my  thoughts.  “I’m  your  friend.” 

“Yes,  Wingie,  I  believe  you.  My  principles  are  not 
opposed  to  an  escape.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,  but 
so  far — ” 


WINGIE 


147 


“S-sh!  Easy.  Walls  have  ears.” 

“Any  chance  here,  Wingie?” 

“Well,  it’s  a  damn  tough  dump,  this  ’ere  is ;  but  there’s 
many  a  star  in  heaven,  Aleck,  an’  you  may  have  a  lucky 
one.  Hasn’t  been  a  get-a-way  here  since  Paddy  McGraw 
sneaked  over  th’  roof,  that’s — lemme  see,  six,  seven  years 
ago,  ’bout.” 

“How  did  he  do  it?”  I  ask,  breathlessly. 

“Jest  Irish  luck.  They  was  finishin’  the  new  block, 
you  know.  Paddy  was  helpin’  lay  th’  roof.  When  he  got 
good  an’  ready,  he  jest  goes  to  work  and  slides  down  th’ 
roof.  Swiped  stuff  in  the  mat  shop  an’  spliced  a  rope  to¬ 
gether,  see.  They  never  got  ’im,  either.” 

“Was  he  in  stripes,  Wingie  ?” 

“Sure  he  was.  Only  been  in  a  few  months.” 

“How  did  he  manage  to  get  away  in  stripes  ? 
Wouldn’t  he  be  recognized  as  an  escaped  prisoner?” 

“ That  bother  you,  Aleck?  Why,  it’s  easy.  Get 
planted  till  dark,  then  hold  up  th’  first  bloke  you  see  an’ 
take  ’is  duds.  Or  you  push  in  th’  back  door  of  a  rag 
joint;  plenty  of  ’em  in  Allegheny.” 

“Is  there  any  chance  now  through  the  roof?” 

“Nit,  my  boy.  Nothin’  doin’  there.  But  a  feller’s 
got  to  be  alive.  Many  ways  to  kill  a  cat,  you  know. 
R’member  the  stiff*  you  got  in  them  things,  tow’l  an’ 
soap  ?” 

“You  know  about  it,  Wingie?”  I  ask,  in  amazement. 

“Do  I?  He,  he,  you  little — ” 

The  click  of  steel  sounds  warning.  Wingie  disap¬ 
pears. 


*  Note. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


TO  THE  GIRL 


Direct  to  Box  A  7, 
Allegheny  City,  Pa., 
November  18,  1892. 

My  dear  Sonya: 

It  seems  an  age  since  I  wrote  to  you,  yet  it  is  only  a  month. 
But  the  monotony  of  my  life  weights  down  the  heels  of  time, — 
the  only  break  in  the  terrible  sameness  is  afforded  me  by  your 
dear,  affectionate  letters,  and  those  of  Fedya.  When  I  return 
to  the  cell  for  the  noon  meal,  my  step  is  quickened  by  the  eager 
expectation  of  finding  mail  from  you.  About  eleven  in  the 
morning,  the  Chaplain  makes  his  rounds ;  his  practiced  hand 
shoots  the  letter  between  the  bars,  toward  the  bed  or  on  to  the 
little  table  in  the  corner.  But  if  the  missive  is  light,  it  will 
flutter  to  the  floor.  As  I  reach  the  cell,  the  position  of  the 
little  white  object  at  once  apprises  me  whether  the  letter  is 
long  or  short.  With  closed  eyes  I  sense  its  weight,  like  the 
warm  pressure  of  your  own  dear  hand,  the  touch  reaching 
softly  to  my  heart,  till  I  feel  myself  lifted  across  the  chasm 
into  your  presence.  The  bars  fade,  the  walls  disappear,  and  the 
air  grows  sweet  with  the  aroma  of  fresh  air  and  flowers, — I  am 
again  with  you,  walking  in  the  bright  July  moonlight.  .  .  .  The 
touch  of  the  velikorussian  in  your  eyes  and  hair  conjures  up 
the  Volga,  our  beautiful  bogatir*  and  the  strains  of  the 
dubinushkarf  trembling  with  suffering  and  yearning,  float 
about  me.  .  .  .  The  meal  remains  untouched.  I  dream 
over  your  letter,  and  again  I  read  it,  slowly,  slowly,  lest  I 
reach  the  end  too  quickly.  The  afternoon  hours  are  hallowed 
by  your  touch  and  your  presence,  and  I  am  conscious  only  of 

*  Brave  knight — affectionately  applied  to  the  great  river. 

f  Folk-song. 

148 


TO  THE  GIRL 


149 


the  longing  for  my  cell, — in  the  quiet  of  the  evening,  freed  from 
the  nightmare  of  the  immediate,  I  walk  in  the  garden  of  our 
dreams. 

And  the  following  morning,  at  work  in  the  shop,  I  pass 
in  anxious  wonder  whether  some  cheering  word  from  my  own, 
my  real  world,  is  awaiting  me  in  the  cell.  With  a  glow  of 
emotion  I  think  of  the  Chaplain:  perhaps  at  the  very  moment 
your  letter  is  in  his  hands.  He  is  opening  it,  reading.  Why  should 
strange  eyes  .  .  .  but  the  Chaplain  seems  kind  and  discreet. 
Now  he  is  passing  along  the  galleries,  distributing  the  mail.  The 
bundle  grows  meagre  as  the  postman  reaches  the  ground  floor. 
Oh !  if  he  does  not  come  to  my  cell  quickly,  he  may  have  no 
letters  left.  But  the  next  moment  I  smile  at  the  childish  thought, 
— if  there  is  a  letter  for  me,  no  other  prisoner  will  get  it.  Yet 
some  error  might  happen.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  impossible — my  name 
and  prison  number,  and  the  cell  number  marked  by  the  Chaplain 
across  the  envelope,  all  insure  the  mail  against  any  mistake  in 
delivery.  Now  the  dinner  whistle  blows.  Eagerly  I  hasten 
to  the  cell.  There  is  nothing  on  the  floor !  Perhaps  on  the 
bed,  on  the  table.  ...  I  grow  feverish  with  the  dread  of  dis¬ 
appointment.  Possibly  the  letter  fell  under  the  bed,  or  in  that 
dark  corner.  No,  none  there, — but  it  can’t  be  that  there  is  no 
mail  for  me  to-day !  I  must  look  again — it  may  have  dropped 
among  the  blankets.  .  .  .  No,  there  is  no  letter! 

Thus  pass  my  days,  dear  friend.  In  thought  I  am  ever 
with  you  and  Fedya,  in  our  old  haunts  and  surroundings.  I  shall 
never  get  used  to  this  life,  nor  find  an  interest  in  the  reality 
of  the  moment.  What  will  become  of  me,  I  don’t  know.  I 
hardly  care.  We  are  revolutionists,  dear:  whatever  sacrifices 
the  Cause  demands,  though  the  individual  perish,  humanity  will 
profit  in  the  end.  In  that  consciousness  we  must  find  our 
solace. 


Alex. 


150  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Sub  rosa. 


Last  Day  of  November,  1892. 


Beloved  Girl: 

I  thought  I  would  not  survive  the  agony  of  our  meeting, 
but  human  capacity  for  suffering  seems  boundless.  All  my 
thoughts,  all  my  yearnings,  were  centered  in  the  one  desire  to 
see  you,  to  look  into  your  eyes,  and  there  read  the  beautiful 
promise  that  has  filled  my  days  with  strength  and  hope.  .  .  . 
An  embrace,  a  lingering  kiss,  and  the  gift  of  Lingg*  would 
have  been  mine.  To  grasp  your  hand,  to  look  down  for  a  mute, 
immortal  instant  into  your  soul,  and  then  die  at  your  hands, 
Beloved,  with  the  warm  breath  of  your  caress  wafting  me  into 
peaceful  eternity — oh,  it  were  bliss  supreme,  the  realization  of 
our  day  dreams,  when,  in  transports  of  ecstasy,  we  kissed  the 
image  of  the  Social  Revolution.  Do  you  remember  that  glorious 
face,  so  strong  and  tender,  on  the  wall  of  our  little  Houston 
Street  hallroom?  How  far,  far  in  the  past  are  those  inspired 
moments !  But  they  have  filled  my  hours  with  hallowed  thoughts, 
with  exulting  expectations.  And  then  you  came.  A  glance  at 
your  face,  and  I  knew  my  doom  to  terrible  life.  I  read  it  in 
the  evil  look  of  the  guard.  It  was  the  Deputy  himself.  Perhaps 
you  had  been  searched !  He  followed  our  every  moment,  like 
a  famished  cat  that  feigns  indifference,  yet  is  alert  with  every 
nerve  to  spring  upon  the  victim.  Oh,  I  know  the  calculated 
viciousness  beneath  that  meek  exterior.  The  accelerated  move¬ 
ment  of  his  drumming  fingers,  as  he  deliberately  seated  himself 
between  us,  warned  me  of  the  beast,  hungry  for  prey.  .  .  .  The 
halo  was  dissipated.  The  words  froze  within  me,  and  I  could 
meet  you  only  with  a  vapid  smile,  and  on  the  instant  it  was 
mirrored  in  my  soul  as  a  leer,  and  I  was  filled  with  anger  and 
resentment  at  everything  about  us — myself,  the  Deputy  (I 
could  have  throttled  him  to  death),  and — at  you,  dear.  Yes, 
Sonya,  even  at  you:  the  quick  come  to  bury  the  dead.  .  .  .  But 
the  next  moment,  the  unworthy  throb  of  my  agonized  soul  was 
stilled  by  the  passionate  pressure  of  my  lips  upon  your  hand. 
How  it  trembled !  I  held  it  between  my  own,  and  then,  as  I 
lifted  my  face  to  yours,  the  expression  I  beheld  seemed  to 
bereave  me  of  my  own  self :  it  was  you  who  were  I !  The 


*  Louis  Lingg,  one  of  the  Chicago  martyrs,  who  committed 
suicide  with  a  dynamite  cartridge  in  a  cigar  given  him  by  a 
friend. 


TO  THE  GIRL 


151 

drawn  face,  the  look  of  horror,  your  whole  being  the  cry  of 
torture — were  you  not  the  real  prisoner?  Or  was  it  my  visioned 
suffering  that  cemented  the  spiritual  bond,  annihilating  all  mis¬ 
understanding,  all  resentment,  and  lifting  us  above  time  and 
place  in  the  afflatus  of  martyrdom? 

Mutely  I  held  your  hand.  There  was  no  need  for  words. 
Only  the  prying  eyes  of  the  catlike  presence  disturbed  the  sacred 
moment.  Then  we  spoke — mechanically,  trivialities.  .  .  .  What 
though  the  cadaverous  Deputy  with  brutal  gaze  timed  the 
seconds,  and  forbade  the  sound  of  our  dear  Russian, — nor 
heaven  nor  earth  could  violate  the  sacrament  sealed  with  our 
pain. 

The  echo  accompanied  my  step  as  I  passed  through  the 
rotunda  on  my  way  to  the  cell.  All  was  quiet  in  the  block.  No 
whir  of  loom  reached  me  from  the  shops.  Thanksgiving  Day : 
all  activities  were  suspended.  I  felt  at  peace  in  the  silence.  But 
when  the  door  was  locked,  and  I  found  myself  alone,  all 
alone  within  the  walls  of  the  tomb,  the  full  significance  of  your 
departure  suddenly  dawned  on  me.  The  quick  had  left  the  dead. 
.  .  .  Terror  of  the  reality  seized  me  and  I  was  swept  by  a 
paroxysm  of  anguish — 

I  must  close.  The  friend  who  promised  to  have  this  letter 
mailed  sub  rosa  is  at  the  door.  He  is  a  kind  unfortunate  who 
has  befriended  me.  May  this  letter  reach  you  safely.  In  token 
of  which,  send  me  postal  of  indifferent  contents,  casually  men¬ 
tioning  the  arrival  of  news  from  my  brother  in  Moscow. 
Remember  to  sign  “Sister.” 

With  a  passionate  embrace. 


Your  Sasha. 


CHAPTER  IX 


PERSECUTION 

I 

Suffering  and  ever-present  danger  are  quick  teachers. 
In  the  three  months  of  penitentiary  life  I  have  learned 
many  things.  I  doubt  whether  the  vague  terrors  pictured 
by  my  inexperience  were  more  dreadful  than  the 
actuality  of  prison  existence. 

In  one  respect,  especially,  the  reality  is  a  source  of 
bitterness  and  constant  irritation.  Notwithstanding  all 
its  terrors,  perhaps  because  of  them,  I  had  always 
thought  of  prison  as  a  place  where,  in  a  measure,  nature 
comes  into  its  own :  social  distinctions  are  abolished,  arti¬ 
ficial  barriers  destroyed;  no  need  of  hiding  one’s 
thoughts  and  emotions;  one  could  be  his  real  self,  shed¬ 
ding  all  hypocrisy  and  artifice  at  the  prison  gates.  But 
how  different  is  this  life !  It  is  full  of  deceit,  sham,  and 
Pharisaism — an  aggravated  counterpart  of  the  outside 
world.  The  flatterer,  the  backbiter,  the  spy, — these  find 
here  a  rich  soil.  The  ill-will  of  a  guard  portends  dis¬ 
aster,  to  be  averted  only  by  truckling  and  flattery,  and 
servility  fawns  for  the  reward  of  an  easier  job.  The 
dissembling  soul  in  stripes  whines  his  conversion  into 
the  pleased  ears  of  the  Christian  ladies,  taking  care  he 
be  not  surprised  without  tract  or  Bible, — and  presently 
simulated  piety  secures  a  pardon,  for  the  angels  rejoice 
at  the  sinner’s  return  to  the  fold.  It  sickens  me  to  wit¬ 
ness  these  scenes. 


152 


PERSECUTION 


153 


The  officers  make  the  alternative  quickly  apparent  to 
the  new  inmate:  to  protest  against  injustice  is  unavailing 
and  dangerous.  Yesterday  I  witnessed  in  the  shop  a 
characteristic  incident — a  fight  between  Johnny  Davis 
and  Jack  Bradford,  both  recent  arrivals  and  mere  boys. 
Johnny,  a  manly-looking  fellow,  works  on  a  knitting 
machine,  a  few  feet  from  my  table.  Opposite  him  is 
Jack,  whose  previous  experience  in  a  reformatory  has 
“put  him  wise,”  as  he  expresses  it.  My  three  months’ 
stay  has  taught  me  the  art  of  conversing  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  motion  of  the  lips.  In  this  manner  I 
learned  from  Johnny  that  Bradford  is  stealing  his 
product,  causing  him  repeated  punishment  for  shortage 
in  the  task.  Hoping  to  terminate  the  thefts,  Johnny 
complained  to  the  overseer,  though  without  accusing 
Jack.  But  the  guard  ignored  the  complaint,  and  con¬ 
tinued  to  report  the  youth.  Finally  Johnny  was  sent 
to  the  dungeon.  Yesterday  morning  he  returned  to 
work.  The  change  in  the  rosy-cheeked  boy  was  startling : 
pale  and  hollow-eyed,  he  walked  with  a  weak,  halting 
step.  As  he  took  his  place  at  the  machine,  I  heard  him 
say  to  the  officer : 

“Mr.  Cosson,  please  put  me  somewhere  else.” 

“Why  so?”  the  guard  asked. 

“I  can’t  make  the  task  here.  I’ll  make  it  on  another 
machine,  please,  Mr.  Cosson.” 

“Why  can’t  you  make  it  here?” 

“I’m  missing  socks.” 

“Ho,  ho,  playing  the  old  game,  are  you?  Want  to 
go  to  th’  hole  again,  eh?” 

“I  couldn’t  stand  the  hole  again,  Mr.  Cosson,  swear 
to  God,  I  couldn’t.  But  my  socks’s  missing  here.” 

“Missing  hell  1  Who’s  stealing  your  socks,  eh?  Don’t 
come  with  no  such  bluff.  Nobody  can’t  steal  your  socks 


154  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


while  I’m  around.  You  go  to  work  now,  and  you’d 
better  make  the  task,  understand?” 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  count  was  taken, 
Johnny  proved  eighteen  pairs  short.  Bradford  was 
“over.” 

I  saw  Mr.  Cosson  approach  Johnny. 

“Eh,  thirty,  machine  thirty,”  he  shouted.  “You 
won’t  make  the  task,  eh?  Put  your  coat  and  cap  on.” 

Fatal  words !  They  meant  immediate  report  to  the 
Deputy,  and  the  inevitable  sentence  toi  the  dungeon. 

“Oh,  Mr.  Cosson,”  the  youth  pleaded,  “it  ain’t  my 
fault,  so  help  me  God,  it  isn’t.” 

“It  ain’t,  eh?  Whose  fault  is  it;  mine?” 

Johnny  hesitated.  His  eyes  sought  the  ground,  then 
wandered  toward  Bradford,  who  studiously  avoided 
the  look. 

“I  can’t  squeal,”  he  said,  quietly. 

“Oh,  hell!  You  ain’t  got  nothin’  to  squeal.  Get 
your  coat  and  cap.” 

Johnny  passed  the  night  in  the  dungeon.  This  morn¬ 
ing  he  came  up,  his  cheeks  more  sunken,  his  eyes  more 
hollow.  With  desperate  energy  he  worked.  He  toiled 
steadily,  furiously,  his  gaze  fastened  upon  the  growing 
pile  of  hosiery.  Occasionally  he  shot  a  glance  at  Brad¬ 
ford,  who,  confident  of  the  officer’s  favor,  met  the  look 
of  hatred  with  a  sly  winking  of  the  left  eye. 

Once  Johnny,  without  pausing  in  the  work,  slightly 
turned  his  head  in  my  direction.  I  smiled  encouragingly, 
and  at  that  same  instant  I  saw  Jack’s  hand  slip  across  the 
table  and  quickly  snatch  a  handful  of  Johnny’s  stockings. 
The  next  moment  a  piercing  shriek  threw  the  shop  into 
commotion.  With  difficulty  they  tore  away  the  infuriated 
boy  from  the  prostrate  Bradford.  Both  prisoners  were 
taken  to  the  Deputy  for  trial,  with  Senior  Officer  Cosson 
as  the  sole  witness. 


PERSECUTION 


I55 


Impatiently  I  awaited  the  result.  Through  the  open 
window  I  saw  the  overseer  return.  He  entered  the  shop, 
a  smile  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  I  resolved  to 
speak  to  him  when  he  passed  by. 

“Mr.  Cosson,”  I  said,  with  simulated  respectfulness, 
“may  I  ask  you  a  question?” 

“Why,  certainly,  Burk,  I  won’t  eat  you.  Fire  away!” 

“What  have  they  done  with  the  boys?” 

“Johnny  got  ten  days  in  the  hole.  Pretty  stiff,  eh? 
You  see,  he  started  the  fight,  so  he  won’t  have  to  make 
the  task.  Oh,  I’m  next  to  him  all  right.  They  can’t  fool 
me  so  easy,  can  they,  Burk?” 

“Well,  I  should  say  not,  Mr.  Cosson.  Did  you  see 
how  the  fight  started?” 

“No.  But  Johnny  admitted  he  struck  Bradford  first. 
That’s  enough,  you  know.  ‘Brad’  will  be  back  in  the 
shop  to-morrow.  I  got  ’im  off  easy,  see;  he’s  a  good 
worker,  always  makes  more  than  th’  task.  He’ll  jest 
lose  his  supper.  Guess  he  can  stand  it.  Ain’t  much  to 
lose,  is  there,  Burk?” 

“No,  not  much,”  I  assented.  “But,  Mr.  Cosson,  it 
was  all  Bradford’s  fault.” 

“How  so?”  the  guard  demanded. 

“He  has  been  stealing  Johnny’s  socks.” 

“You  didn’t  see  him  do  ’t.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Cosson.  I  saw  him  this — ” 

“Look  here,  Burk.  It’s  all  right.  Johnny  is  no 
good  anyway;  he’s  too  fresh.  You’d  better  say  nothing 
about  it,  see?  My  word  goes  with  the  Deputy.” 

The  terrible  injustice  preys  on  my  mind.  Poor 
Johnny  is  already  the  fourth  day  in  the  dreaded  dungeon. 
His  third  time,  too,  and  yet  absolutely  innocent.  My 
blood  boils  at  the  thought  of  the  damnable  treatment 
and  the  officer’s  perfidy.  It  is  my  duty  as  a  revolutionist 


156  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


to  take  the  part  of  the  persecuted.  Yes,  I  will  do  so. 
But  how  proceed  in  the  matter?  Complaint  against 
Mr.  Cosson  would  in  all  likelihood  prove  futile.  And 
the  officer,  informed  of  my  action,  will  make  life  miser¬ 
able  for  me:  his  authority  in  the  shop  is  absolute. 

The  several  plans  I  revolve  in  my  mind  do  not 
prove,  upon  closer  examination,  feasible.  Considera¬ 
tions  of  personal  interest  struggle  against  my  sense  of 
duty.  The  vision  of  Johnny  in  the  dungeon,  his  vacant 
machine,  and  Bradford’s  smile  of  triumph,  keep  the 
accusing  conscience  awake,  till  silence  grows  unbearable. 
I  determine  to  speak  to  the  Deputy  Warden  at  the  first 
opportunity. 

Several  days  pass.  Often  I  am  assailed  by  doubts: 
is  it  advisable  to  mention  the  matter  to  the  Deputy? 
It  cannot  benefit  Johnny;  it  will  involve  me  in  trouble. 
But  the  next  moment  I  feel  ashamed  of  my  weakness. 
I  call  to  mind  the  much-admired  hero  of  my  youth, 
the  celebrated  Mishkin.  With  an  overpowering  sense 
of  my  own  unworthiness,  I  review  the  brave  deeds  of 
Hippolyte  Nikitich.  What  a  man!  Single-handed  he 
essayed  to  liberate  Chernishevsky  from  prison.  Ah,  the 
curse  of  poverty !  But  for  that,  Mishkin  would  have 
succeeded,  and  the  great  inspirer  of  the  youth  of  Russia 
would  have  been  given  back  to  the  world.  I  dwell 
on  the  details  of  the  almost  successful  escape,  Mishkin’s 
fight  with  the  pursuing  Cossacks,  his  arrest,  and  his 
remarkable  speech  in  court.  Sentenced  to  ten  years  of 
hard  labor  in  the  Siberian  mines,  he  defied  the  Russian 
tyrant  by  his  funeral  oration  at  the  grave  of  Dmo- 
khovsky,  his  boldness  resulting  in  an  additional  fifteen 
years  of  katorga*  Minutely  I  follow  his  repeated  at¬ 
tempts  to  escape,  the  transfer  of  the  redoubtable  prisoner 


*  Hard  labor  in  the  mines. 


PERSECUTION 


157 


to  the  Petropavloskaia  fortress,  and  thence  to  the  terrible 
Schlusselburg  prison,  where  Mishkin  braved  death  by 
avenging  the  maltreatment  of  his  comrades  on  a  high 
government  official.  Ah!  thus  acts  the  revolutionist; 
and  I — yes,  I  am  decided.  No  danger  shall  seal  my 
lips  against  outrage  and  injustice. 

At  last  an  opportunity  is  at  hand.  The  Deputy  enters 
the  shop.  Tall  and  gray,  slightly  stooping,  with  head 
carried  forward,  he  resembles  a  wolf  following  the 
trail. 

“Mr.  McPane,  one  moment,  please.” 

“Yes.” 

’  “I  think  Johnny  Davis  is  being  punished  innocently.” 

“You  think,  hm,  hm.  And  who  is  this  innocent 
Johnny,  hm,  Davis?” 

His  fingers  drum  impatiently  on  the  table;  he 
measures  me  with  mocking,  suspicious  eyes. 

“Machine  thirty,  Deputy.” 

“Ah,  yes;  machine  thirty;  hm,  hm,  Reddy  Davis. 
Hm,  he  had  a  fight.” 

“The  other  man  stole  his  stockings.  I  saw  it,  Mr. 
McPane.” 

“So,  so.  And  why,  hm,  hm,  did  you  see  it,  my  good 
man?  You  confess,  then,  hm,  hm,  you  were  not,  hm, 
attending  to  your  own  work.  That  is  bad,  hm,  very 
bad.  Mr.  Cosson !” 

The  guard  hastens  to  him. 

“Mr.  Cosson,  this  man  has  made  a,  hm,  hm,  a  charge 
against  you.  Prisoner,  don’t  interrupt  me.  Hm,  what 
is  your  number?” 

“A  7.” 

“Mr.  Cosson,  A  7  makes  a,  hm,  complaint  against 
the  officer,  hm,  in  charge  of  this  shop.  Please,  hm, 
hm,  note  it  down.” 


i 


158  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

Both  draw  aside,  conversing  in  low  tones.  The 
words  “kicker,”  “his  kid,”  reach  my  ears.  The  Deputy 
nods  at  the  overseer,  his  steely  eyes  fastened  on  me 
in  hatred. 

II 

I  feel  helpless,  friendless.  The  consolation  of 
Wingie’s  cheerful  spirit  is  missing.  My  poor  friend  is 
in  trouble.  From  snatches  of  conversation  in  the  shop  I 
have  pieced  together  the  story.  “Dutch”  Adams,  a  third- 
timer  and  the  Deputy’s  favorite  stool  pigeon,  had  lost 
his  month’s  allowance  of  tobacco  on  a  prize-fight  bet. 
He  demanded  that  Wingie,  who  was  stakeholder,  share 
the  spoils  with  him.  Infuriated  by  refusal,  “Dutch” 
reported  my  friend  for  gambling.  The  unexpected 
search  of  Wingie’s  cell  discovered  the  tobacco,  thus 
apparently  substantiating  the  charge.  Wingie  was  sent 
to  the  dungeon.  But  after  the  expiration  of  five  days 
my  friend  failed  to  return  to  his  old  cell,  and  I  soon 
learned  that  he  had  been  ordered  into  solitary  confine¬ 
ment  for  refusing  to  betray  the  men  who  had  trusted 
him. 

% 

The  fate  of  Wingie  preys  on  my  mind.  My  poor 
kind  friend  is  breaking  down  under  the  effects  of  the 
dreadful  sentence.  This  morning,  chancing  to  pass  his 
cell,  I  hailed  him,  but  he  did  not  respond  to  my  greeting. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  hear  me,  I  thought.  Impatiently 
I  waited  for  the  noon  return  to  the  block.  “Hello, 
Wingie!”  I  called.  He  stood  at  the  door,  intently  peer¬ 
ing  between  the  bars.  He  stared  at  me  coldly,  with  blank, 
expressionless  eyes.  “Who  are  you?”  he  whimpered, 
brokenly.  Then  he  began  to  babble.  Suddenly  the  ter¬ 
rible  truth  dawned  on  me.  My  poor,  poor  friend,  the 
first  to  speak  a  kind  word  to  me, — he’s  gone  mad ! 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  YEGG 
I 

Weeks  and  months  pass  without  clarifying  plans  of 
escape.  Every  step,  every  movement,  is  so  closely 
guarded,  I  seem  to  be  hoping  against  hope.  I  am  restive 
and  nervous,  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement. 

Conditions  in  the  shop  tend  to  aggravate  my  frame 
of  mind.  The  task  of  the  machine  men  has  been 
increased;  in  consequence,  I  am  falling  behind  in  my 
work.  My  repeated  requests  for  assistance  have  been 
ignored  by  the  overseer,  who  improves  every  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  insult  and  humiliate  me.  His  feet  wide  apart, 
arms  akimbo,  belly  disgustingly  protruding,  he  measures 
me  with  narrow,  fat  eyes.  “Oh,  what’s  the  matter  with 
you,”  he  drawls,  “get  a  move  on,  won’t  you,  Burk?” 
Then,  changing  his  tone,  he  vociferates,  “Don’t  stand 
there  like  a  fool,  d’ye  hear?  Nex’  time  I  report  you,  to 
th’  hole  you  go.  That’s  me  talkin’,  understand?” 

Often  I  feel  the  spirit  of  Cain  stirring  within  me. 
But  for  the  hope  of  escape,  I  should  not  be  able  to  bear 
this  abuse  and  persecution.  As  it  is,  the  guard  is  almost 
overstepping  the  limits  of  my  endurance.  His  low 
cunning  invents  numerous  occasions  to  mortify  and 
harass  me.  The  ceaseless  dropping  of  the  poison  is 
making  my  days  in  the  shop  a  constant  torture.  I  seek 
relief — forgetfulness  rather — in  absorbing  myself  in  the 
work:  I  bend  my  energies  to  outdo  the  efforts  of  the 

159 


l6o  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


previous  day ;  I  compete  with  myself,  and  find  melancholy 
pleasure  in  establishing  and  breaking  high  records  for 
“turning.”  Again,  I  tax  my  ingenuity  to  perfect  means 
of  communication  with  Johnny  Davis,  my  young  neigh¬ 
bor.  Apparently  intent  upon  our  task,  we  carry  on  a 
silent  conversation  with  eyes,  fingers,  and  an  occasional 
motion  of  the  lips.  To  facilitate  the  latter  method,  I 
am  cultivating  the  habit  of  tobacco  chewing.  The 
practice  also  affords  greater  opportunity  for  exchanging 
impressions  with  my  newly-acquired  assistant,  an  old- 
timer,  who  introduced  himself  as  “Boston  Red.”  I  owe 
this  development  to  the  return  of  the  Warden  from 
his  vacation.  Yesterday  he  visited  the  shop.  A  military¬ 
looking  man,  with  benevolent  white  beard  and  stately 
carriage,  he  approached  me,  in  company  with  the  Super¬ 
intendent  of  Prison  Manufactures. 

“Is  this  the  celebrated  prisoner?”  he  asked,  a  faint 
smile  about  the  rather  coarse  mouth. 

“Yes,  Captain,  that’s  Berkman,  the  man  who  shot 
Frick.” 

“I  was  in  Naples  at  the  time.  I  read  about  you  in 
the  English  papers  there,  Berkman.  How  is  his  conduct, 
Superintendent?” 

“Good.” 

“Well,  he  should  have  behaved  outside.” 

But  noticing  the  mountain  of  unturned  hosiery,  the 
Warden  ordered  the  overseer  to  give  me  help,  and  thus 
“Boston  Red”  joined  me  at  work  the  next  day. 

My  assistant  is  taking  great  pleasure  in  perfecting 
me  in  the  art  of  lipless  conversation.  A  large  quid  of 
tobacco  inflating  his  left  cheek,  mouth  slightly  open  and 
curved,  he  delights  in  recounting  “ghost  stories,”  under 
the  very  eyes  of  the  officers.  “Red”  is  initiating  me 
into  the  world  of  “de  road,”  with  its  free  life,  so  full 


THE  YEGG 


161 


of  interest  and  adventure,  its  romance,  joys  and  sorrows. 
An  interesting  character,  indeed,  who  facetiously  pre¬ 
tends  to  ‘'look  down  upon  the  world  from  the  sublime 
heights  of  applied  cynicism.” 

“Why,  Red,  you  can  talk  good  English,”  I  admonish 
him.  “Why  do  you  use  so  much  slang?  It’s  rather 
difficult  for  me  to  follow  you.” 

“I’ll  learn  you,  pard.  See,  I  should  have  said 
'teach’  you,  not  'learn.’  That’s  how  they  talk  in  school. 
Have  I  been  there?  Sure,  boy.  Gone  through  college. 
Went  through  it  with  a  bucket  of  coal,”  he  amplifies, 
with  a  sly  wink.  He  turns  to  expectorate,  sweeping  the 
large  shop  with  a  quick,  watchful  eye.  Head  bent  over 
the  work,  he  continues  in  low,  guttural  tones : 

“Don’t  care  for  your  classic  language.  I  can  use 
it  all  right,  all  right.  But  give  me  the  lingo,  every 
time.  You  see,  pard,  I’m  no  gun;*  don’t  need  it  in 
me  biz.  I’m  a  yegg.” 

“What’s  a  yegg,  Red?” 

“A  supercilious  world  of  cheerful  idiots  applies  to 
my  kind  the  term  ‘tramp.’  ” 

“A  yegg,  then,  is  a  tramp.  I  am  surprised  that  you 
should  care  for  the  life  of  a  bum.” 

A  flush  suffuses  the  prison  pallor  of  the  assistant. 
“You  are  stoopid  as  the  rest  of  ’em,”  he  retorts,  with 
considerable  heat,  and  I  notice  his  lips  move  as  in 
ordinary  conversation.  But  in  a  moment  he  has  regained 
composure,  and  a  good-humored  twinkle  plays  about  his 
eyes. 

“Sir,”  he  continues,  with  mock  dignity,  “to  say  the 
least,  you  are  not  discriminative  in  your  terminology. 
No,  sir,  you  are  not.  Now,  lookee  here,  pard,  you’re 
a  good  boy,  but  your  education  has  been  sadly  neglected. 


*  Professional  thief. 


1 62  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Catch  on  ?  Don’t  call  me  that  name  again.  It’s  offensive. 
It’s  an  insult,  entirely  gratuitous,  sir.  Indeed,  sir,  I  may 
say  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  this  insult  is 
quite  supervacaneous.  Yes,  sir,  that’s  me.  I  ain’t  no 
bum,  see ;  no  such  damn  thing.  Eliminate  the  disgraceful 
epithet  from  your  vocabulary,  sir,  when  you  are  address¬ 
ing  yours  truly.  I  am  a  yagg,  y — a —  double  g,  sir,  of 
the  honorable  clan  of  yaggmen.  Some  spell  it  y — e — 
double  g,  but  I  insist  on  the  a,  sir,  as  grammatically 
more  correct,  since  the  peerless  word  has  no  etymologic 
consanguinity  with  hen  fruit,  and  should  not  be  con¬ 
founded  by  vulgar  misspelling.” 

“ What’s  the  difference  between  a  yegg  and  a  bum?” 

“All  the  diff  in  the  world,  pard.  A  bum  is  a  low- 
down  city  bloke,  whose  intellectual  horizon,  sir,  revolves 
around  the  back  door,  with  a  skinny  hand-out  as  his 
center  of  gravity.  He  hasn’t  the  nerve  to  forsake  his 
native  heath  and  roam  the  wide  world,  a  free  and 
independent  gentleman.  That’s  the  yagg,  me  bye.  He 
dares  to  be  and  do,  all  bulls  notwithstanding.  He  lives, 
aye,  he  lives, — on  the  world  of  suckers,  thank  you,  sir. 
Of  them  ’tis  wisely  said  in  the  good  Book,  ‘They  shall 
increase  and  multiply  like  the  sands  of  the  seashore,” 
or  words  to  that  significant  effect.  A  yagg’s  the  salt 
of  the  earth,  pard.  A  real,  true-blood  yagg  will  not 
deign  to  breathe  the  identical  atmosphere  with  a  city 
bum  or  gaycat.  No,  sirree.” 

I  am  about  to  ask  for  an  explanation  of  the  new  term, 
when  the  quick,  short  coughs  of  “Red”  warn  me  of 
danger.  The  guard  is  approaching  with  heavy,  meas¬ 
ured  tread,  head  thrown  back,  hands  clasped  behind, — a 
sure  indication  of  profound  self-satisfaction. 

“How  are  you,  Reddie?”  he  greets  the  assistant. 

“So,  so.” 

“Ain’t  been  out  long,  have  you?” 


THE  YEGG 


163 


“Two  an’  some.” 

“That’s  pretty  long  for  you.” 

“Oh,  I  dunno.  I’ve  been  out  four  years  oncet.” 

“Yes,  you  have !  Been  in  Columbus*  then,  I  s’pose.” 

“Not  on  your  life,  Mr.  Cosson.  It  was  Sing  Sing.” 

“Ha,  ha!  You’re  all  right,  Red.  But  you’d  better 
hustle  up,  fellers.  I’m  putting  in  ten  more  machines,  so 
look  lively.” 

“When’s  the  machines  cornin’,  Mr.  Cosson?” 

“Pretty  soon,  Red.” 

The  officer  passing  on,  “Red”  whispers  to  me: 

“Aleck,  ‘pretty  soon’  is  jest  the  time  I’ll  quit.  Damn 
his  work  and  the  new  machines.  I  ain’t  no  gaycat  to 
work.  Think  I’m  a  nigger,  eh?  No,  sir,  the  world 
owes  me  a  living,  and  I  generally  manage  to  get  it,  you 
bet  you.  Only  mules  and  niggers  work.  I’m  a  free 
man;  I  can  live  on  my  wits,  see?  I  don’t  never  work 
outside;  damme  if  I’ll  work  here.  I  ain’t  no  office- 
seeker.  What  d’  I  want  to  work  for,  eh?  Can  you  tell 
me  that?” 

“Are  you  going  to  refuse  work?” 

“Refuse?  Me?  Nixie.  That’s  a  crude  word,  that. 
No,  sir,  I  never  refuse.  They’ll  knock  your  damn  block 
off,  if  you  refuse.  I  merely  avoid,  sir,  discriminately 
and  with  steadfast  purpose.  Work  is  a  disease,  me  bye. 
One  must  exercise  the  utmost  care  to  avoid  contagion. 
It’s  a  regular  pest.  You  never  worked,  did  you?” 

The  unexpected  turn  surprises  me  into  a  smile,  which 
I  quickly  suppress,  however,  observing  the  angry  frown 
on  “Red’s”  face.  ' 

“You  bloke,”  he  hisses,  “shut  your  face;  the  screw’ll 
pipe  you.  You’ll  get  us  in  th’  hole  for  chewin’  th’  rag. 
Whatcher  hehawin’  about?”  he  demands,  repeating  the 


*  The  penitentiary  at  Columbus,  Ohio. 


1 64  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


manoeuvre  of  pretended  expectoration.  “D’ye  mean  t’ 
tell  me  you  work?” 

“I  am  a  printer,  a  compositor,”  I  inform  him. 

“Get  off!  You’re  an  Anarchist.  I  read  the  papers, 
sir.  You  people  don’t  believe  in  work.  You  want  to 
divvy  up.  Well,  it  is  all  right,  I’m  with  you.  Rockefeller 
has  no  right  to  the  whole  world.  He  ain’t  satisfied 
with  that,  either;  he  wants  a  fence  around  it.” 

“The  Anarchists  don’t  want  to  ‘divvy  up,’  Red.  You 
got  your  misinformation — ” 

“Oh,  never  min’,  pard.  I  don’  take  stock  in  reform¬ 
ing  the  world.  It’s  good  enough  for  suckers,  and  as 
Holy  Writ  says,  sir,  ‘Blessed  be  they  that  neither  sow 
nor  hog;  all  things  shall  be  given  unto  them.’  Them’s 
wise  words,  me  bye.  Moreover,  sir,  neither  you  nor 
me  will  live  to  see  a  change,  so  why  should  I  worry 
me  nut  about  ’t?  It  takes  all  my  wits  to  dodge  work. 
It’s  disgraceful  to  labor,  and  it  keeps  me  industriously 
busy,  sir,  to  retain  my  honor  and  self-respect.  Why, 
you  know,  pard,  or  perhaps  you  don’t,  greenie,  Colum¬ 
bus  is  a  pretty  tough  dump ;  but  d’ye  think  I  worked 
the  four-spot  there?  Not  me;  no,  sirree!” 

“Didn’t  you  tell  Cosson  you  were  in  Sing  Sing,  not 
in  Columbus?” 

“’Corse  I  did.  What  of  it?  Think  I’d  open  my 
guts  to  my  Lord  Bighead?  I’ve  never  been  within 
thirty  miles  of  the  York  pen.  It  was  Hail  Columbia 
all  right,  but  that’s  between  you  an’  I,  savvy.  Don’ 
want  th’  screws  to  get  next.” 

“Well,  Red,  how  did  you  manage  to  keep  away  from 
work  in  Columbus?” 

“Manage?  That’s  right,  sir.  ’Tis  a  word  of  pro¬ 
found  significance,  quite  adequately  descriptive  of  my 
humble  endeavors.  Just  what  I  did,  buddy.  I  managed, 
with  a  capital  M.  To  good  purpose,  too,  me  bye.  Not 


THE  YEGG 


165 

a  stroke  of  work  in  a  four-spot.  How?  I  had  Billie 
with  me,  that’s  me  kid,  you  know,  an’  a  fine  boy  he 
was,  too.  I  had  him  put  a  jigger  on  me;  kept  it  up 
for  four  years.  There’s  perseverance  and  industry  for 
you,  sir.” 

'‘What’s  ‘putting  a  jigger  on’?” 

“A  jigger?  Well,  a  jigger  is — ” 

The  noon  whistle  interrupts  the  explanation.  With 
a  friendly  wink  in  my  direction,  the  assistant  takes 
his  place  in  the  line.  In  silence  we  march  to  the  cell- 
house,  the  measured  footfall  echoing  a  hollow  threat 
in  the  walled  quadrangle  of  the  prison  yard. 

II 

Conversation  with  “Boston  Red,”  Young  Davis,  and 
occasional  other  prisoners  helps  to  while  away  the 
tedious  hours  at  work.  But  in  the  solitude  of  the  cell, 
through  the  long  winter  evenings,  my  mind  dwells  in 
the  outside  world.  Friends,  the  movement,  the  growing 
antagonisms,  the  bitter  controversies  between  the 
Mostianer  and  the  defenders  of  my  act,  fill  my  thoughts 
and  dreams.  By  means  of  fictitious,  but  significant, 
names,  Russian  and  German  words  written  backward, 
and  similar  devices,  the  Girl  keeps  me  informed  of  the 
activities  in  our  circles.  I  think  admiringly,  yet  quite 
impersonally,  of  her  strenuous  militancy  in  championing 
my  cause  against  all  attacks.  It  is  almost  weak  on  my 
part,  as  a  terrorist  of  Russian  traditions,  to  consider 
her  devotion  deserving  of  particular  commendation. 
She  is  a  revolutionist;  it  is  her  duty  to  our  common 
Cause.  Courage,  whole-souled  zeal,  is  very  rare,  it  is 
true.  The  Girl,  Fedya,  and  a  few  others, — hence  the 
sad  lack  of  general  opposition  in  the  movement  to 
Most’s  attitude.  .  .  .  But  communications  from  comrades 


1 66  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


and  unknown  sympathizers  germinate  the  hope  of  an 
approaching  reaction  against  the  campaign  of  denuncia¬ 
tion.  With  great  joy  I  trace  the  ascending  revolutionary 
tendency  in  Der  Arme  Teufel.  I  have  persuaded  the 
Chaplain  to  procure  the  admission  of  the  ingenious  Rob¬ 
ert  Reitzel’s  publication.  All  the  other  periodicals  ad¬ 
dressed  to  me  are  regularly  assigned  to  the  waste  basket, 
by  orders  of  the  Deputy.  The  latter  refused  to  make  an 
exception  even  in  regard  to  the  Knights  of  Labor  Journal. 
“It  is  an  incendiary  Anarchist  sheet,”  he  persisted. 

The  arrival  of  the  Teufel  is  a  great  event.  What 
joy  to  catch  sight  of  the  paper  snugly  reposing  between 
the  legs  of  the  cell  table !  Tenderly  I  pick  it  up,  fondling 
the  little  visitor  with  quickened  pulse.  It  is  an  animate, 
living  thing,  a  ray  of  warmth  in  the  dreary  evenings. 
What  cheering  message  does  Reitzel  bring  me  now? 
What  beauties  of  his  rich  mind  are  hidden  to-day  in  the 
quaint  German  type  ?  Reverently  I  unfold  the  roll.  The 
uncut  sheet  opens  on  the  fourth  page,  and  the  stirring 
Jpaean  of  Hope’s  prophecy  greets  my  eye, — 

Oruss  an  Blcxander  IBcrkman! 

For  days  the  music  of  the  Dawn  rings  in  my  ears. 
Again  and  again  recurs  the  refrain  of  faith  and  proud 
courage, 

Scfyott  riiftet  ftd?  ber  ^reifyett  Scfyaar 
gur  fjetltgett  <£ntfd?eibungsf<f?ladjt; 

<£s  ettbert  ^tpetuttbsmanjig'* 

Dielleicfyt  in  eitter  Sturmesnacfyt  I 

But  in  the  evening,  when  I  return  to  the  cell,  reality 
lays  its  heavy  hand  upon  my  heart.  The  flickering  of 
the  candle  accentuates  the  gloom,  and  I  sit  brooding 
over  the  interminable  succession  of  miserable  days  and 
evenings  and  nights.  .  .  .  The  darkness  gathers  around 


THE  YEGG 


167 


the  candle,  as  I  motionlessly  watch  its  desperate  struggle 
to  be.  Its  dying  agony,  ineffectual  and  vain,  presages 
my  own  doom,  approaching,  inevitable.  Weaker  and 
fainter  grows  the  light,  feebler,  feebler — a  last  spasm, 
and  all  is  utter  blackness. 

Three  bells.  “Lights  out!” 

Alas,  mine  did  not  last  its  permitted  hour.  .  .  . 

The  sun  streaming  into  the  many-windowed  shop 
routs  the  night,  and  dispels  the  haze  of  the  fire-spitting 
city.  Perhaps  my  little  candle  with  its  bold  defiance  has 
shortened  the  reign  of  darkness, — who  knows  ?  Perhaps 
the  brave,  uneven  struggle  coaxed  the  sun  out  of  his 
slumbers,  and  hastened  the  coming  of  Day.  The  fancy 
lures  me  with  its  warming  embrace,  when  suddenly  the 
assistant  startles  me: 

“Say,  pard,  slept  bad  last  night?  You  look  boozy, 
me  lad.” 

Surprised  at  my  silence,  he  admonishes  me: 

“Young  man,  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip.  Just  look  at 
me!  Permit  me  to  introduce  to  you,  sir,  a  gentleman 
who  has  sounded  the  sharps  and  fiats  of  life,  and  faced 
the  most  intricate  network,  sir,  of  iron  bars  between 
York  and  Frisco.  Always  acquitted  himself  with  flying 
colors,  sir,  merely  by  being  wise  and  preserving  a  stiff 
upper  lip;  see  th’  point?” 

“What  are  you  driving  at,  Red?” 

“They’se  goin’  to  move  me  down  on  your  row,*  now 
that  Pm  in  this  ’ere  shop.  Dunno  how  long  I  shall 
choose  to  remain,  sir,  in  this  magnificent  hosiery  estab¬ 
lishment,  but  I  see  there’s  a  vacant  cell  next  yours,  an’ 
I’m  goin’  to  try  an’  land  there.  Are  you  next,  me  bye? 
I’m  goin’  to  learn  you  to  be  wise,  sonny.  I  shall,  so  to 


*  Gallery. 


1 68  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


speak,  assume  benevolent  guardianship  over  you;  over 
you  and  your  morals,  yes,  sir,  for  you’re  my  kid  now, 
see?” 

“How,  your  kid?” 

“How?  My  kid,  of  course.  That’s  just  what  I 
mean.  Any  objections,  sir,  as  the  learned  gentlemen  , 
of  the  law  say  in  the  honorable  courts  of  the  blind 
goddess.  You  betcher  life  she’s  blind,  blind  as  an  owl 
on  a  sunny  midsummer  day.  Not  in  your  damn  smoky 
city,  though ;  sun’s  ashamed  here.  But  ’way  down  in 
my  Kentucky  home,  down  by  the  Suanee  River, 
Sua-a-nee-ee  Riv — ” 

“Hold  on,  Red.  You  are  romancing.  You  started 
to  tell  me  about  being  your  ‘kid’.  Now  explain,  what 
do  you  mean  by  it?” 

“Really,  you — ”  He  holds  the  unturned  stocking 
suspended  over  the  post,  gazing  at  me  with  half-closed, 
cynical  eyes,  in  which  doubt  struggles  with  wonder. 
In  his  astonishment  he  has  forgotten  his  wonted  caution, 
and  I  warn  him  of  the  officer’s  watchful  eye. 

“Really,  Alex;  well,  now,  damme,  I’ve  seen  some¬ 
thing  of  this  ’ere  round  globe,  some  mighty  strange 
sights,  too,  and  there  ain’t  many  things  to  surprise  me, 
lemme  tell  you.  But  you  do,  Alex ;  yes,  me  lad,  you  do. 
Haven’t  had  such  a  stunnin’  blow  since  I  first  met 
Cigarette  Jimmie  in  Oil  City.  Innocent?  Well,  I  should 
snicker.  He  was,  for  sure.  Never  heard  a  ghost  story; 
was  fourteen,  too.  Well,  I  got  ’im  all  right,  all  right. 
Now  he’s  doin’  a  five-bit  down  in  Kansas,  poor  kiddie. 
Well,  he  certainly  was  a  surprise.  But  many  tempestuous 
billows  of  life,  sir,  have  since  flown  into  the  shoreless 
ocean  of  time,  yes,  sir,  they  have,  but  I  never  got  such 
a  stunner  as  you  just  gave  me.  Why,  man,  it’s  a  body- 
blow,.  a  reg’lar  knockout  to  my  knowledge  of  the  world, 
sir,  to  my  settled  estimate  of  the  world’s  supercilious 


THE  YEGG  169 

righteousness.  Well,  damme,  if  I’d  ever  believe  it.  Say, 
how  old  are  you,  Alex?” 

“I’m  over  twenty-two,  Red.  But  what  has  all  this 
to  do  with  the  question  I  asked  you?” 

“Everythin’,  me  bye,  everythin’.  You’re  twenty-two 
and  don’t  know  what  a  kid  is!  Well,  if  it  don’t  beat 
raw  eggs,  I  don’t  know  what  does.  Green?  Well,  sir, 
it  would  be  hard  to  find  an  adequate  analogy  to  your 
inconsistent  immaturity  of  mind;  aye,  sir,  I  may  well 
say,  of  soul,  except  to  compare  it  with  the  virtuous 
condition  of  green  corn  in  the  early  summer  moon.  You 
know  what  ‘moon’  is,  don’t  you?”  he  asks,  abruptly, 
with  an  evident  effort  to  suppress  a  smile. 

I  am  growing  impatient  of  his  continuous  avoidance 
of  a  direct  answer.  Yet  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  be  angry  with  him ;  the  face  expressive  of  a  deep-felt 
conviction  of  universal  wisdom,  the  eyes  of  humorous 
cynicism,  and  the  ludicrous  manner  of  mixing  tramp 
slang  with  “classic”  English,  all  disarm  my  irritation. 
Besides,  his  droll  chatter  helps  to  while  away  the  tedious 
hours  at  work;  perhaps  I  may  also  glean  from  this 
experienced  old-timer  some  useful  information  regarding 
my  plans  of  escape. 

“Well,  d’ye  know  a  moon  when  you  see  ’t?”  “Red” 
inquires,  chaffingly. 

“I  suppose  I  do.” 

“I’ll  bet  you  my  corn  dodger  you  don’t.  Sir,  I  can 
see  by  the  tip  of  your  olfactory  organ  that  you  are 
steeped  in  the  slough  of  densest  ignorance  concerning 
the  supreme  science  of  moonology.  Yes,  sir,  do  not 
contradict  me.  I  brook  no  sceptical  attitude  regarding 
my  undoubted  and  proven  perspicacity  of  human  nature. 
How’s  that  for  classic  style,  eh  ?  That’ll  hold  you  down 
a  moment,  kid.  As  I  was  about  to  say  when  you  in¬ 
terrupted — eh,  what?  You  didn’t?  Oh,  what’s  the 


170  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


matter  with  you?  Don’t  yer  go  now  an’  rooin  the 
elegant  flight  of  my  rhetorical  Pegasus  with  an  insignifi¬ 
cant  interpolation  of  mere  fact.  None  of  your  lip,  now, 
boy,  an’  lemme  develop  this  sublime  science  of  moonol- 
ogy  before  your  wondering  gaze.  To  begin  with,  sir, 
moonology  is  an  exclusively  aristocratic  science.  Not 
for  the  pretenders  of  Broad  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue. 
Nixie.  But  for  the  only  genuine  aristocracy  of  de  road, 
sir,  for  the  pink  of  humankind,  for  the  yaggman,  me  lad, 
for  yours  truly  and  his  clan.  Yes,  sirree!” 

“I  don’t  know  what  you  are  talking  about.” 

“I  know  you  don’t.  That’s  why  I’m  goin’  to  chap¬ 
eron  you,  kid.  In  plain  English,  sir,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  generate  within  your  postliminious  comprehension  a 
discriminate  conception  of  the  subject  at  issue,  sir,  by 
divesting  my  lingo  of  the  least  shadow  of  imperspicuity 
or  ambiguity.  Moonology,  my  Marktwainian 'Innocent, 
is  the  truly  Christian  science  of  loving  your  neighbor, 
provided  he  be  a  nice  little  boy.  Understand  now?” 

“How  can  you  love  a  boy?” 

“Are  you  really  so  dumb?  You  are  not  a  ref  boy, 
I  can  see  that.” 

“Red,  if  you’d  drop  your  stilted  language  and  talk 
plainly,  I’d  understand  better.” 

“Thought  you  liked  the  classic.  But  you  ain’t  long 
on  lingo  neither.  How  can  a  self-respecting  gentleman 
explain  himself  to  you?  But  I’ll  try.  You  love  a  boy 
as  you  love  the  poet-sung  heifer,  see?  Ever  read  Billy 
Shakespeare?  Know  the  place,  ‘He’s  neither  man  nor 
woman;  he’s  punk.’  Well,  Billy  knew.  A  punk’s  a  boy 
that’ll  .  .  .” 

“What !” 

“Yes,  sir.  Give  himself  to  a  man.  Now  we’se 
talkin’  plain.  Savvy  now,  Innocent  Abroad?” 

“I  don’t  believe  what  you  are  telling  me,  Red.” 


THE  YEGG 


171 

“You  don’t  be-lie-ve?  What  th’  devil — damn  me 
soul  t’  hell,  what  d’  you  mean,  you  don’t  b’lieve?  Gee, 
look  out!” 

The  look  of  bewilderment  on  his  face  startles  me. 
In  his  excitement,  he  had  raised  his  voice  almost  to  a 
shout,  attracting  the  attention  of  the  guard,  who  is  now 
hastening  toward  us. 

“Who’s  talkin’  here?”  he  demands,  suspiciously 
eyeing  the  knitters.  “You,  Davis?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“Who  was,  then?” 

“Nobody  here,  Mr.  Cosson.” 

“Yes,  they  was.  I  heard  hollerin’.” 

“Oh,  that  was  me,”  Davis  replies,  with  a  quick  glance 
at  me.  “I  hit  my  elbow  against  the  machine.” 

“Let  me  see  ’t.” 

The  guard  scrutinizes  the  bared  arm. 

“Wa-a-11,”  he  says,  doubtfully,  “it  don’t  look  sore.” 

“It  hurt,  and  I  hollered.” 

The  officer  turns  to  my  assistant:  “Has  he  been 
talkin’,  Reddie?” 

“I  don’t  think  he  was,  Cap’n.” 

Pleased  with  the  title,  Cosson  smiles  at  “Red,”  and 
passes  on,  with  a  final  warning  to  the  boy :  “Don’t  you 
let  me  catch  you  at  it  again,  you  hear!” 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  the  overseers  exercise 
particular  vigilance  over  our  end  of  the  shop.  But 
emboldened  by  the  increased  din  of  the  new  knitting 
machinery,  “Red”  soon  takes  up  the  conversation  again. 

“Screws  can’t  hear  us  now,”  he  whispers,  “  ’cept 

s 

they’s  close  to  us.  But  watch  your  lips,  boy;  the  damn 
bulls  got  sharp  lamps.  An’  don’  scare  me  again  like 
that.  Why,  you  talk  so  foolish,  you  make  me  plumb 
forget  myself.  Say,  that  kidjs  all  to  the  good,  ain’t 


IJ2  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

he?  What’s  his  name,  Johnny  Davis?  Yes,  a  wise  kid 
all  right.  Just  like  me  own  Billie  I  tole  you  ’bout. 
He  was  no  punk,  either,  an’  don’t  you  forget  it.  True 
as  steel,  he  was;  stuck  to  me  through  my  four-spot 
like  th’  bark  to  a  tree.  Say,  what’s  that  you  said,  you 
don’t  believe  what  I  endeavored  so  conscientiously,  sir, 
to  drive  into  your  noodle?  You  was  only  kiddin’  me, 
wasn’t  you?” 

“No,  Red,  I  meant  it  quite  seriously.  You’re  spin¬ 
ning  ghost  stories,  or  whatever  you  call  it.  I  don’t  be¬ 
lieve  in  this  kid  love.” 

“An’  why  don’t  you  believe  it?” 

“Why — er — well,  I  don’t  think  it  possible.” 

“What  isn’t  possible?” 

“You  know  what  I  mean.  I  don’t  think  there  can 
be  such  intimacy  between  those  of  the  same  sex.” 

“Ho,  ho!  That’s  your  point?  Why,  Alex,  you’re 
more  of  a  damfool  than  the  casual  observer,  sir,  would 
be  apt  to  postulate.  You  don’t  believe  it  possible,  you 
don’t,  eh?  Well,  you  jest  gimme  half  a  chance,  and  I’ll 
show  you.” 

“Red,  don’t  you  talk  to  me  like  that,”  I  burst  out, 
angrily.  “If  you — ” 

“Aisy,  aisy,  me  bye,”  he  interrupts,  good-naturedly. 
“Don’t  get  on  your  high  horse.  No  harm  meant,  Alex. 
You’re  a  good  boy,  but  you  jest  rattle  me  with  your 
crazy  talk.  Why,  you’re  bugs  to  say  it’s  impossible. 
Man  alive,  the  dump’s  chuckful  of  punks.  It’s  done  in 
every  prison,  an’  on  th’  road,  everywhere.  Lord,  if 
I  had  a  plunk  for  every  time  I  got  th’  best  of  a  kid, 
I’d  rival  Rockefeller,  sir;  I  would,  me  bye.” 

“You  actually  confess  to  such  terrible  practices? 
You’re  disgusting.  But  I  don’t  really  believe  it,  Red.” 

“Confess  hell!  I  confess  nothin’.  Terrible,  disgust¬ 
ing!  You  talk  like  a  man  up  a  tree,  you  holy  sky-pilot.” 


THE  YEGG 


173 

t 

“Are  there  no  women  on  the  road?” 

“Pshaw !  Who  cares  for  a  heifer  when  you  can  get  a 
kid  ?  Women  are  no  good.  I  wouldn’t  look  at  ’em  when 
I  can  have  my  prushun.*  Oh,  it  is  quite  evident,  sir, 
you  have  not  delved  into  the  esoteric  mysteries  of 
moonology,  nor  tasted  the  mellifluous  fruit  on  the  for¬ 
bidden  tree  of — ” 

“Oh,  quit!” 

“Well,  you’ll  know  better  before  your  time’s  up,  me 
virtuous  sonny.” 

For  several  days  my  assistant  fails  to  appear  in  the 
shop  on  account  of  illness.  He  has  been  “excused”  by 
the  doctor,  the  guard  informs  me.  I  miss  his  help  at 
work;  the  hours  drag  heavier  for  lack  of  “Red’s” 
companionship.  Yet  I  am  gratified  by  his  absence.  His 
cynical  attitude  toward  woman  and  sex  morality  has 
roused  in  me  a  spirit  of  antagonism.  The  panegyrics 
of  boy-love  are  deeply  offensive  to  my  instincts.  The 
very  thought  of  the  unnatural  practice  revolts  and 
disgusts  me.  But  I  find  solace  in  the  reflection  that 
“Red’s”  insinuations  are  pure  fabrication;  no  credence 
is  to  be  given  them.  Man,  a  reasonable  being,  could 
not  fall  to  such  depths;  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  such 
unspeakably  vicious  practices.  Even  the  lowest  outcast 
must  not  be  credited  with  such  perversion,  such 
depravity.  I  should  really  take  the  matter  more  calmly. 
The  assistant  is  a  queer  fellow;  he  is  merely  teasing 
me.  These  things  are  not  credible ;  indeed,  I  don’t 
believe  they  are  possible.  And  even  if  they  were,  no 
human  being  would  be  capable  of  such  iniquity.  I  must 
not  suffer  “Red’s”  chaffing  to  disturb  me. 


*  A  boy  serving  his  apprenticeship  with  a  full-fledged  tramp. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  ROUTE  SUB  ROSA 


March  4,  1893. 

Girl  and  Twin  : 

¥ 

I  am  writing  with  despair  in  my  heart.  I  was  taken  to 
Pittsburgh  as  a  witness  in  the  trial  of  Nold  and  Bauer.  I  had 
hoped  for  an  opportunity — you  understand,  friends.  It  was  a 
slender  thread,  but  I  clung  to  it  desperately,  prepared  to  stake 
everything  on  it.  It  proved  a  broken  straw.  Now  I  am  back, 
and  I  may  never  leave  this  place  alive. 

I  was  bitterly  disappointed  not  to  find  you  in  the  courtroom. 
I  yearned  for  the  sight  of  your  faces.  But  you  were  not  there, 
nor  any  one  else  of  our  New  York  comrades.  I  knew  what  it 
meant :  you  are  having  a  hard  struggle  to  exist.  Otherwise 
perhaps  something  could  be  done  to  establish  friendly  relations 
between  Rakhmetov  and  Mr.  Gebop.*  It  would  require  an 
outlay  beyond  the  resources  of  our  own  circle ;  others  cannot 
be  approached  in  this  matter.  Nothing  remains  but  the  “inside” 
developments, — a  terribly  slow  process. 

This  is  all  the  hope  I  can  hold  out  to  you,  dear  friends. 
You  will  think  it  quite  negligible;  yet  it  is  the  sole  ray  that  has 
again  and  again  kindled  life  in  moments  of  utmost  darkness. 
.  .  .  I  did  not  realize  the  physical  effects  of  my  stay  here  (it 
is  five  months  now)  till  my  return  from  court.  I  suppose  the 
excitement  of  being  on  the  outside  galvanized  me  for  the 
nonce.  .  .  .  My  head  was  awhirl ;  I  could  not  collect  my 
thoughts.  The  wild  hope  possessed  me, — pobeg!  The  click  of 
the  steel,  as  I  was  handcuffed  to  the  Deputy,  struck  my  death- 
knell.  .  .  .  The  unaccustomed  noise  of  the  streets,  the  people 
and  loud  voices  in  the  courtroom,  the  scenes  of  the  trial,  all 
absorbed  me  in  the  moment.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  a 
spectator,  interested,  but  personally  unconcerned,  in  the  sur- 

*  Reading  backward,  pobeg;  Russian  for  “escape.” 

174 


THE  ROUTE  SUB  ROSA 


175 


roundings ;  and  these,  too,  were  far  away,  of  a  strange  world 
in  which  I  had  no  part.  Only  when  I  found  myself  alone  in 
the  cell,  the  full  significance  of  the  lost  occasion  was  borne  in 
upon  me  with  crushing  force. 

But  why  sadden  you?  There  is  perhaps  a  cheerier  side, 
now  that  Nold  and  Bauer  are  here.  I  have  not  seen  them  yet, 
but  their  very  presence,  the  circumstance  that  somewhere  within 
these  walls  there  are  comrades,  men  who,  like  myself,  suffer 
for  an  ideal — the  thought  holds  a  deep  satisfaction  for  me. 
It  brings  me  closer,  in  a  measure,  to  the  environment  of 
political  prisoners  in  Europe.  Whatever  the  misery  and  torture 
of  their  daily  existence,  the  politicals — even  in  Siberia — breathe 
the  atmosphere  of  solidarity,  of  appreciation.  What  courage 
and  strength  there  must  be  for  them  in  the  inspiration  radiated 
by  a  common  cause !  Conditions  here  are  entirely  different. 
Both  inmates  and  officers  are  at  loss  to  “class”  me.  They 
have  never  known  political  prisoners.  That  one  should  sacrifice 
or  risk  his  life  with  no  apparent  personal  motives,  is  beyond 
their  comprehension,  almost  beyond  their  belief.  It  is  a  desert 
of  sordidness  that  constantly  threatens  to  engulf  one.  I  would 
gladly  exchange  places  with  our  comrades  in  Siberia. 

The  former  podpoilnaya*  was  suspended,  because  of  the 
great  misfortune  that  befell  my  friend  Wingie,  of  whom  I  wrote 
to  you  before.  This  dove  will  be  flown  by  Mr.  Tiuremsh chick, f 
an  old  soldier  who  really  sympathizes  with  Wingie.  I  believe 
they  served  in  the  same  regiment.  He  is  a  kindly  man,  who 
hates  his  despicable  work.  But  there  is  a  family  at  home,  a 
sick  wife — you  know  the  old,  weak-kneed  tale.  I  had  a  hint 
from  him  the  other  day:  he  is  being  spied  upon;  it  is  dangerous 
for  him  to  be  seen  at  my  cell,  and  so  forth.  It  is  all  quite  true ; 
but  what  he  means  is,  that  a  little  money  would  be  welcome. 
You  know  how  to  manage  the  matter.  Leave  no  traces. 

I  hear  the  felt-soled  step.  It’s  the  soldier.  I  bid  my  birdie 
a  hasty  good-bye.  Sasha. 


*  Sub  rosa  route,  f  Russian  for  “guard.” 


CHAPTER  XII 


“ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN” 

I 

A  dense  fog  rises  from  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Ohio. 
It  ensnares  the  river  banks  in  its  mysterious  embrace, 
veils  tree  and  rock  with  sombre  mist,  and  mocks  the 
sun  with  angry  frown.  Within  the  House  of  Death  is 
felt  the  chilling  breath,  and  all  is  quiet  and  silent  in 
the  iron  cages. 

Only  an  occasional  knocking,  as  on  metal,  disturbs 
the  stillness.  I  listen  intently.  Nearer  and  more  audible 
seem  the  sounds,  hesitating  and  apparently  intentional. 
I  am  involuntarily  reminded  of  the  methods  of  com¬ 
munication  practiced  by  Russian  politicals,  and  I  strive 
to  detect  some  meaning  in  the  tapping.  It  grows  clearer 
as  I  approach  the  back  wall  of  the  cell,  and  instantly  I 
am  aware  of  a  faint  murmur  in  the  privy.  Is  it  fancy, 
or  did  I  hear  my  name? 

“Halloa !”  I  call  into  the  pipe. 

The  knocking  ceases  abruptly.  I  hear  a  suppressed, 
hollow  voice:  “That  you,  Aleck ?” 

“Yes.  Who  is  it?” 

“Never  min’.  You  must  be  deaf  not  to  hear  me 
callin’  you  all  this  time.  Take  that  cott’n  out  o’  your 
ears.” 

“I  didn’t  know  you  could  talk  this  way.” 

“You  didn’t?  Well,  you  know  now.  Them’s  empty 

176 


“ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN” 


177 


pipes,  no  standin’  water,  see?  Fine  t’  talk.  Oh,  dammit 
to—” 

The  words  are  lost  in  the  gurgle  of  rushing  water. 
Presently  the  flow  subsides,  and  the  knocking  is  re¬ 
sumed.  I  bend  over  the  privy. 

“Hello,  hello!  That  you,  Aleck?” 

“Git  off  that  line,  ye  jabberin’  idiot!”  some  one  shouts 
into  the  pipe. 

“Lay  down,  there!” 

“Take  that  trap  out  o’  the  hole.” 

“Quit  your  foolin’,  Horsethief.” 

“Hey,  boys,  stop  that  now.  That’s  me,  fellers.  It’s 
Bob,  Horsethief  Bob.  I’m  talkin’  business.  Keep  quiet 
now,  will  you?  Are  you  there,  Aleck?  Yes?  Well,  pay 
no  ’tention  to  them  dubs.  ’Twas  that  crazy  Southside 
Slim  that  turned  th’  water  on — ” 

“Who  you  call  crazy,  damn  you,”  a  voice  interrupts. 

“Oh,  lay  down,  Slim,  will  you?  Who  said  you  was 
crazy?  Nay,  nay,  you’re  bugs.  Hey,  Aleck,  you  there?” 

“Yes,  Bob  ” 

“Oh,  got  me  name,  have  you?  Yes,  I’m  Bob,  Horse¬ 
thief  Bob.  Make  no  mistake  when  you  see  me ;  I’m  Big 
Bob,  the  Horsethief.  Can  you  hear  me?  It’s  you, 
Aleck  ?” 

“Yes,  yes.” 

“Sure  it’s  you?  Got  t’  tell  you  somethin’.  What’s 
your  number?” 

“A  7.” 

“Right  you  are.  What  cell?” 

“6  K.” 

“An’  this  is  me,  Big  Bob,  in — ” 

“Windbag  Bob,”  a  heavy  bass  comments  from  above. 

“Shut  up,  Curley,  I’m  on  th’  line.  I’m  in  6  F,  Aleck, 
top  tier.  Call  me  up  any  time  I’m  in,  ha,  ha!  You  see, 
pipe’s  runnin’  up  an’  down,  an’  you  can  talk  to  any  range* 


178  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

you  want,  but  always  to  tlT  same  cell  as  you’re  !#>  Cell 
6,  understand?  Now  if  you  wan’ t’  talk  to  Cell  14,  to 
Shorty,  you  know — ” 

“I  don’t  want  to  talk  to  Shorty.  I  don’t  know  him. 
Bob.” 

“Yes,  you  do.  You  list’n  what  I  tell  you,  Aleck,  an’ 
you’ll  be  all  right.  That’s  me  talkin’,  Big  Bob,  see? 
Now,  I  say  if  you’d  like  t’  chew  th’  rag  with  Shorty,  you 
jest  tell  me.  Tell  Brother  Bob,  an’  he’ll  connect  you  all 
right.  Are  you  on?  Know  who’s  Shorty?” 

“No.” 

“Yo  oughter.  That’s  Carl,  Carl  Nold.  Know  him, 
don’t  you?” 

“What!”  I  cry  in  astonishment.  “Is  it  true,  Bob? 
Is  Nold  up  there  on  your  gallery?” 

“Sure  thing.  Cell  14.” 

“Why  didn’t  you  say  so  at  once?  You’ve  been  talk¬ 
ing  ten  minutes  now.  Did  you  see  him  ?” 

“What’s  your  hurry,  Aleck?  You  can’t  see  ’im;  not 
jest  now,  anyway.  P’r’aps  bimeby,  mebbe.  There’s  no 
hurry,  Aleck.  You  got  plenty  o’  time.  A  few  years, 
rather ,  ha,  ha,  ha!” 

“Hey,  there,  Horsethief,  quit  that!”  I  recognize 
“Curley’s”  deep  bass.  “What  do  you  want  to  make  the 
kid  feel  bad  for?” 

“No  harm  meant,  Curley,”  Bob  returns,  “I  was  jest 
joshin’  him  a  bit.” 

“Well,  quit  it.” 

“You  don’  min’  it,  Aleck,  do  you?”  I  hear  Bob  again, 
his  tones  softened,  “I  didn’  mean  t’  hurt  your  feelin’s. 
I’m  your  friend,  Aleck,  you  can  bet  your  corn  dodger 
on  that.  Say,  I’ve  got  somethin’  for  you  from  Shorty, 
I  mean  Carl,  you  savvy?” 

“What  have  you,  Bob?” 

“Nixie  through  th’  hole,  ain’t  safe.  I’m  coffee-boy 


“ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN” 


179 


on  this  ’ere  range.  I’ll  sneak  around  to  you  in  the 
mornin’,  when  I  go  t’  fetch  me  can  of  bootleg.  Now, 
jiggaroo,*  screw’s  cornin’.” 


The  presence  of  my  comrades  is  investing  existence 
with  interest  and  meaning.  It  has  brought  to  me  a 
breeze  from  the  atmosphere  of  my  former  environment; 
it  is  stirring  the  graves,  where  lie  my  soul’s  dead,  into 
renewed  life  and  hope. 

The  secret  exchange  of  notes  lends  color  to  the 
routine.  It  is  like  a  fresh  mountain  streamlet  joyfully 
rippling  through  a  stagnant  swamp.  At  work  in  the 
shop,  my  thoughts  are  engrossed  with  our  correspond¬ 
ence.  Again  and  again*  I  review  the  arguments  eluci¬ 
dating  to  my  comrades  the  significance  of  my  Attentat: 
they,  too,  are  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of 
the  purely  physical  result.  The  exchange  of  views  grad¬ 
ually  ripens  our  previously  brief  and  superficial  acquaint¬ 
ance  into  closer  intimacy.  There  is  something  in  Carl 
Nold  that  especially  attracts  me:  I  sense  in  him  a  con¬ 
genial  spirit.  His  spontaneous  frankness  appeals  to  me; 
my  heart  echoes  his  grief  at  the  realization  of  Most’s 
unpardonable  behavior.  But  the  ill-concealed  antag¬ 
onism  of  Bauer  is  irritating.  It  reflects  his  desperate 
clinging  to  the  shattered  idol.  Presently,  however,  a 
better  understanding  begins  to  manifest  itself.  The 
big,  jovial  German  has  earned  my  respect;  he  braved 
the  anger  of  the  judge  by  consistently  refusing  to  betray 
the  man  who  aided  him  in  the  distribution  of  the  An¬ 
archist  leaflet  among  the  Homestead  workers.  On  the 
other  hand,  both  Carl  and  Henry  appreciate  my  efforts 


*  Look  out. 


l8o  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


on  the  witness  stand,  to  exonerate  them  from  complicity 
in  my  act.  Their  condemnation,  as  acknowledged  An¬ 
archists,  was,  of  course,  a  foregone  conclusion,  and  I 
am  gratified  to  learn  that  neither  of  my  comrades  had 
entertained  any  illusions  concerning  the  fate  that  awaited 
them.  Indeed,  both  have  expressed  surprise  that  the 
maximum  revenge  of  the  law  was  not  visited  upon  them. 
Their  philosophical  attitude  exerts  a  soothing  effect  upon 
me.  Carl  even  voices  satisfaction  that  the  sentence  of 
five  years  will  afford  him  a  long-needed  vacation  from 
many  years  of  ceaseless  factory  toil.  He  is  facetiously 
anxious  lest  capitalist  industry  be  handicapped  by  the 
loss  of  such  a  splendid  carpenter  as  Henry,  whom  he 
good-naturedly  chaffs  on  the  separation  from  his  newly 
affianced. 

The  evening  hours  have  ceased  to  drag:  there  is 
pleasure  and  diversion  in  the  correspondence.  The 
notes  have  grown  into  bulky  letters,  daily  cementing 
our  friendship.  We  compare  views,  exchange  impres¬ 
sions,  and  discuss  prison  gossip.  I  learn  the  history  of 
the  movement  in  the  twin  cities,  the  personnel  of  An¬ 
archist  circles,  and  collect  a  fund  of  anecdotes  about 
Albrecht,  the  philosophic  old  shoemaker  whose  dimin¬ 
utive  shop  in  Allegheny  is  the  center  of  the  radical 
inteligenzia.  With  deep  contrition  Bauer  confesses  how 
narrowly  he  escaped  the  role  of  my  executioner.  My 
unexpected  appearance  in  their  midst,  at  the  height  of 
the  Homestead  struggle,  had  waked  suspicion  among  the 
Allegheny  comrades.  They  sent  an  inquiry  to  Most, 
whose  reply  proved  a  warning  against  me.  Unknown  to 
me,  Bauer  shared  the  room  I  occupied  in  Nold’s  house. 
Through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  he  lay  awake, 
with  revolver  cocked.  At  the  first  sign  of  a  suspicious 
move  on  my  part,  he  had  determined  to  kill  me. 


“ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN” 


181 


The  personal  tenor  of  our  correspondence  is  grad¬ 
ually  broadening  into  the  larger  scope  of  socio-political 
theories,  methods  of  agitation,  and  applied  tactics.  The 
discussions,  prolonged  and  often  heated,  absorb  our 
interest.  The  bulky  notes  necessitate  greater  circum¬ 
spection;  the  difficulty  of  procuring  writing  materials 
assumes  a  serious  aspect.  Every  available  scrap  of 
paper  is  exhausted;  margins  of  stray  newspapers  and 
magazines  have  been  penciled  on,  the  contents  repeatedly 
erased,  and  the  frayed  tatters  microscopically  covered 
with  ink.  Even  an  occasional  fly-leaf  from  library  books 
has  been  sacrilegiously  forced  to  leave  its  covers,  and 
every  evidence  of  its  previous  association  dexterously 
removed.  The  problem  threatens  to  terminate  our  cor¬ 
respondence,  and  fills  us  with  dismay.  But  the  genius 
of  our  faithful  postman,  of  proud  horsethieving  procliv¬ 
ities,  proves  equal  to  the  occasion :  Bob  constitutes  him¬ 
self  our  commissary,  designating  the  broom  shop,  in 
which  he  is  employed,  as  the  base  of  our  future  supplies. 

The  unexpected  affluence  fills  us  with  joy.  The  big 
rolls  requisitioned  by  “Horsethief”  exclude  the  fear  of 
famine;  the  smooth  yellow  wrapping  paper  affords  the 
luxury  of  larger  and  more  legible  chirography.  The 
pride  of  sudden  wealth  germinates  ambitious  projects. 
We  speculate  on  the  possibility  of  converting  our  cor¬ 
respondence  into  a  magazinelet,  and  wax  warm  over 
the  proposed  list  of  readers.  Before  long  the  first  issue 
of  the  Zuchthausbliithen*  is  greeted  with  the  encour¬ 
aging  approval  of  our  sole  subscriber,  whose  contribu¬ 
tion  surprises  us  in  the  form  of  a  rather  creditable  poem 
on  the  blank  last  page  of  the  publication.  Elated  at 
the  happy  acquisition,  we  unanimously  crown  him  Meis- 
tersinger,  with  dominion  over  the  department  of  poetry. 


*  Prison  Blossoms. 


182  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


Soon  we  plan  more  pretentious  issues :  the  outward 
size  of  the  publication  is  to  remain  the  same,  three  by  five 
inches,  but  the  number  of  pages  is  to  be  enlarged;  each 
issue  to  have  a  different  editor,  to  ensure  equality  of 
opportunity;  the  readers  to  serve  as  contributing  ed¬ 
itors.  The  appearance  of  the  Bliithen  is  to  be  regulated 
by  the  time  required  to  complete  the  circle  of  readers, 
whose  identity  is  to  be  masked  with  certain  initials,  to 
protect  them  against  discovery.  Henceforth  Bauer, 
physically  a  giant,  is  to  be  known  as  “G”;  because  of 
my  medium  stature,  I  shall  be  designated  with  the 
letter  “M” ;  and  Nold,  as  the  smallest,  by  “K.”*  The 
poet,  his  history  somewhat  shrouded  in  mystery,  is 
christened  “D”  for  Dichter.  “M,”  “K,”  “G,”  are  to 
act,  in  turn,  as  editor-in-chief,  whose  province  it  is  to 
start  the  Bliithen  on  its  way,  each  reader  contributing 
to  the  issue  till  it  is  returned  to  the  original  editor,  to 
enable  him  to  read  and  comment  upon  his  fellow-con¬ 
tributors.  The  publication,  its  contents  growing  in 
transit,  is  finally  to  reach  the  second  contributor  upon 
whom  will  devolve  the  editorial  management  of  the 
following  issue. 

The  unique  arrangement  proves  a  source  of  much 
pleasure  and  recreation.  The  little  magazine  is  rich  in 
contents  and  varied  in  style.  The  diversity  of  hand¬ 
writing  heightens  the  interest,  and  stimulates  speculation 
on  the  personality  of  our  increasing  reader  s-contrib- 
utors.  In  the  arena  of  the  diminutive  publication,  there 
rages  the  conflict  of  contending  social  philosophies ;  here 
a  political  essay  rubs  elbows  with  a  witty  anecdote,  and 
a  dissertation  on  “The  Nature  of  Things”  is  interspersed 
with  prison  small-talk  and  personal  reminiscence. 
Flashes  of  unstudied  humor  and  unconscious  rivalry 


*  Initial  of  the  German  klein,  small. 


“ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN” 


183 


of  orthography  lend  peculiar  charm  to  the  unconven¬ 
tional  editorials,  and  waft  a  breath  of  Josh  Billings 
into  the  manuscript  pages. 

But  the  success  of  the  Zuchthausbliithen  soon  dis¬ 
covers  itself  a  veritable  Frankenstein,  which  threatens 
the  original  foundation  and  aims  of  the  magazinelet.  The 
popularity  of  joint  editorship  is  growing  at  the  cost  of 
unity  and  tendency;  the  Bard’s  astonishing  facility  at 
versification,  coupled  with  his  Jules  Vernian  imagina¬ 
tion,  causes  us  grave  anxiety  lest  his  untamable  Peg¬ 
asus  traverse  the  limits  of  our  paper  supply.  The  ap¬ 
palling  warning  of  the  commissary  that  the  improvident 
drain  upon  his  resources  is  about  to  force  him  on  a  strike, 
imperatively  calls  a  halt.  We  are  deliberating  policies  * 
of  retrenchment  and  economy,  when  unexpectedly  the 
arrival  of  two  Homestead  men  suggests  an  auspicious 
solution. 


Ill 

The  presence  of  Hugh  F.  Dempsey  and  Robert  J. 

T 

Beatty,  prominent  in  the  Knights  of  Labor  organization, 
offers  opportunity  for  propaganda  among  workers  rep¬ 
resenting  the  more  radical  element  of  American  labor. 
Accused  of  poisoning  the  food  served  to  the  strike¬ 
breakers  in  the  mills,  Dempsey  and  Beatty  appear  to  me 
men  of  unusual  type.  Be  they  innocent  or  guilty,  the 
philosophy  of  their  methods  is  in  harmony  with  revolu¬ 
tionary  tactics.  Labor  can  never  be  unjust  in  its  demands : 
is  it  not  the  creator  of  all  the  wealth  in  the  world? 
Every  weapon  may  be  employed  to  return  the  despoiled 
People  into  its  rightful  ownership.  Is  not  the  terrorizing 
of  scabbery,  and  ultimately  of  the  capitalist  exploiters, 
an  effective  means  of  aiding  the  struggle?  Therefore 
Dempsey  and  Beatty  deserve  acclaim.  Morally  certain 
of  their  guilt,  I  respect  them  the  more  for  it,  though  I 


184  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


am  saddened  by  their  denial  of  complicity  in  the  scheme 
of  wholesale  extermination  of  the  scabs.  The  black¬ 
leg  is  also  human,  it  is  true,  and  desires  to  live.  But  one 
should  starve  rather  than  turn  traitor  to  the  cause  of  his 
class.  Moreover,  the  individual — or  any  number  of 
them — cannot  be  weighed  against  the  interests  of  hu¬ 
manity. 

Infinite  patience  weaves  the  threads  that  bring  us 
in  contact  with  the  imprisoned  labor  leaders.  In  the 
ceaseless  duel  of  vital  need  against  stupidity  and  malice, 
caution  and  wit  are  sharpened  by  danger.  The  least 
indiscretion,  the  most  trifling  negligence,  means  dis¬ 
covery,  disaster.  But  perseverance  and  intelligent  pur¬ 
pose  conquer:  by  the  aid  of  the  faithful  “Horsethief,” 
communication  with  Dempsey  and  Beatty  is  established. 
With  the  aggressiveness  of  strong  conviction  I  present  to 
them  my  views,  dwelling  on  the  historic  role  of  the 
Attentat er  and  the  social  significance  of  conscious  indi¬ 
vidual  protest.  The  discussion  ramifies,  the  interest 
aroused  soon  transcending  the  limits  of  my  paper  sup¬ 
ply.  Presently  I  am  involved  in  a  correspondence  with 
several  men,  whose  questions  and  misinterpretations  re¬ 
garding  my  act  I  attempt  to  answer  and  correct  with 
individual  notes.  But  the  method  proves  an  impossible 
tax  on  our  opportunities,  and  “KGM”  finally  decide 
to  publish  an  English  edition  of  the  Zuchthausbliithen. 
The  German  ^.agazinelet  is  suspended,  and  in  its  place 
appears  the  first  issue  of  the  Prison  Blossoms. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  JUDAS 


“Ah,  there.  Sporty!”  my  assistant  greets  me  in  the 
shop.  “Stand  treat  on  this  festive  occasion?” 

“Yes,  Red.  Have  a  chew,”  I  reply  with  a  smile, 
handing  him  my  fresh  plug  of  tobacco. 

His  eyes  twinkle  with  mischievous  humor  as  he  scru¬ 
tinizes  my  changed  suit  of  dark  gray.  The  larger  part 
of  the  plug  swelling  out  his  cheek,  he  flings  to  me  the 
remnant  across  the  table,  remarking: 

“Don’t  care  for’t.  Take  back  your  choo.  I’ll  keep 
me  honor, — your  plug,  I  mean,  sonny.  A  gentleman  of 
my  eminence,  sir,  a  natural-born  navigator  on  the  high 
seas  of  social  life, — are  you  on,  me  bye? — a  gentleman, 
I  repeat,  sir,  whose  canoe  the  mutations  of  all  that  is 
human  have  chucked  on  this  here  dry,  thrice  damned 
dry  latitude,  sir,  this  nocuous  plague-spot  of  civiliza¬ 
tion, — say,  kid,  what  t’  hell  am  I  talkin’  about?  Damn 
if  I  ain’t  clean  forgot.” 

“I’m  sure  I  don’t  know,  Red.” 

“Like  hell  you  don’t !  It’s  your  glad  duds,  kid. 
Offerin’  me  a  ch-aw  tob-b-bac-co !  Christ,  I’m  dyin’ 
for  a  drop  of  booze.  This  magnificent  occasion  deserves 
a  wetting,  sir.  And,  say,  Aleck,  it  won’t  hurt  your 
beauty  to  stretch  them  sleeves  of  yours  a  bit.  You 

185 


1 86  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


look  like  a  scarecrow  in  them  high-water  pants.  Ain’t 
old  Sandy  the  king  of  skinners,  though!” 

“Whom  do  you  mean,  Red?” 

“Who  I  mean,  you  id  jot!  Who  but  that  skunk 
of  a  Warden,  the  Honorable  Captain  Edward  S.  Wright, 
if  you  please,  sir.  Captain  of  rotten  old  punks,  that’s 
what  he  is.  You  ask  th’  screws.  He’s  never  smelt 
powder ;  why,  he’s  been  here  most  o’  his  life.  But  some 
o’  th’  screws  been  here  longer,  borned  here,  damn  ’em; 
couldn’t  pull  ’em  out  o’  here  with  a  steam  engine, 
you  couldn’t.  They  can  tell  you  all  ’bout  the  Cap, 
though.  Old  Sandy  didn’  have  a  plugged  nickel  to  his 
name  when  he  come  ’ere,  an’  now  the  damn  stomach- 
robber  is  rich.  Reg’lar  gold  mine  this  dump’s  for  ’im. 
Only  gets  a  lousy  five  thousan’  per  year.  Got  big  fam’ly 
an’  keeps  carriages  an’  servants,  see,  an’  can  ’ford  t’ 
go  to  Europe  every  year,  an’  got  a  big  pile  in  th’  bank 
to  boot,  all  on  a  scurvy  five  thousan’  a  year.  Good 
manager,  ain’t  he?  A  reg’lar  church  member,  too,  damn 
his  rotten  soul  to  hell!” 

“Is  he  as  bad  as  all  that,  Red?” 

“Is  he  ?  A  hypocrite  dyed  in  th’  wool,  that’s  what  he 
is.  Plays  the  humanitarian  racket.  He  had  a  great 
deal  t’  say  t’  the  papers  why  he  didn’t  believe  in  the 
brutal  way  lams  was  punished  by  that  Homestead 
colonel — er — what’s  ’is  name?” 

“Colonel  Streator,  of  the  Tenth  Pennsylvania.” 

“That’s  the  cur.  He  hung  up  Private  lams  by  the 
thumbs  till  th’  poor  boy  was  almost  dead.  For  nothin’, 
too.  Suppose  you  remember,  don’t  you?  lams  had 
called  for  ‘three  cheers  for  the  man  who  shot  Frick,’  an’ 
they  pretty  near  killed  ’im  for  ’t,  an’  then  drummed  ’im 
out  of  th’  regiment  with  ’is  head  half  shaved.” 

“It  was  a  most  barbarous  thing.” 


THE  JUDAS 


187 

“An’  that  damn  Sandy  swore  in  th’  papers  he  didn’t 
believe  in  such  things,  an’  all  th’  while  th’  lyin’  murderer 
is  doin’  it  himself.  Not  a  day  but  some  poor  con  is 
‘cuffed  up’  in  th’  hole.  That’s  th’  kind  of  humanitarian 
he  is !  It  makes  me  wild  t’  think  on  ’t.  Why,  kid,  I 
even  get  a  bit  excited,  and  forget  that  you,  young  sir, 
are  attuned  to  the  dulcet  symphonies  of  classic  Eng¬ 
lish.  But  whenever  that  skunk  of  a  Warden  is  the 
subject  of  conversation,  sir,  even  my  usually  imper¬ 
turbable  serenity  of  spirit  and  tranquil  stoicism  are  not 
equal  to  ‘Patience  on  a  monument  smiling  at  grief/ 
Watch  me,  sonny,  that’s  yours  truly  spielin’.  Why,  look 
at  them  dingy  rags  of  yours.  I  liked  you  better  in  th’ 
striped  duds.  They  give  you  the  hand-me-downs  of 
that  nigger  that  went  out  yesterday,  an’  charge  you  on 
th’  books  with  a  bran’  new  suit.  See  where  Sandy 
gets  his  slice,  eh?  An’  say,  kid,  how  long  are  you  here?” 

“About  eight  months,  Red.” 

“They  beat  you  out  o’  two  months  all  right.  Suppose 
they  obey  their  own  rules?  Nit,  sir.  You  are  aware, 
my  precious  lamb,  that  you  are  entitled  to  discard  your 
polychromic  vestments  of  zebra  hue  after  a  sojourn  of 
six  months  in  this  benevolent  dump.  I  bet  you  that  fresh 
fish  at  the  loopin’  machine  there,  came  up  ’ere  some  days 
ago,  he  won’t  be  kept  waitin’  more’n  six  months  for  ’is 
black  clothes.” 

I  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  recent  arrival.  He  is 
a  slender  man,  with  swarthy  complexion  and  quick, 
shifting  eye.  The  expression  of  guilty  cunning  is 
repelling. 

“Who  is  that  man?”  I  whisper  to  the  assistant. 

“Like  ’im,  don’t  you?  Permit  me,  sir,  to  introduce 
to  you  the  handiwork  of  his  Maker,  a  mealy-mouthed, 
oily-lipped,  scurvy  gaycat,  a  yellow  cur,  a  snivelling, 
fawning  stool,  a  filthy,  oozy  sneak,  a  snake  in  the  grass 


1 88  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


whose  very  presence,  sir,  is  a  mortal  insult  to  a  self- 
respecting  member  of  my  clan, — Mr.  Patrick  Gallagher, 
of  the  honorable  Pinkerton  family,  sir.” 

“Gallagher?”  I  ask,  in  astonishment.  “The  inform¬ 
er,  who  denounced  Dempsey  and  Beatty  ?” 

“The  very  same.  The  dirty  snitch  that  got  those 
fellows  railroaded  here  for  seven  years.  Dempsey  was 
a  fool  to  bunch  up  with  such  vermin  as  Gallagher  and 
Davidson.  He  was  Master  Workman  of  some  district 
of  the  Knights  of  Labor.  Why  in  hell  didn’t  he  get 
his  own  men  to  do  th’  job?  Goes  to  work  an’  hires  a 
brace  of  gaycats;  sent  ’em  to  the  scab  mills,  you  savvy, 
to  sling  hash  for  the  blacklegs  and  keep  ’im  posted  on 
the  goings  on,  see?  S’pose  you  have  oriented  yourself, 
sir,  concerning  the  developments  in  the  culinary  experi¬ 
ment  ?” 

“Yes.  Croton  oil  is  supposed  to  have  been  used  to 
make  the  scabs  sick  with  diarrhoea.” 

“Make  ’em  sick  ?  Why,  me  bye,  scores  of  ’em 
croaked.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  at  your  use  of  such  a 
vulgar  term  as  diarrhoea.  You  offend  my  aestheticism. 
The  learned  gentlemen  who  delve  deeply  into  the  bow¬ 
els  of  earth  and  man,  sir,  ascribed  the  sudden  and  phe¬ 
nomenal  increase  of  unmentionable  human  obligations 
to  nature,  the  mysterious  and  extravagant  popularity 
of  the  houses  of  ill  odor,  sir,  and  the  automatic  obedience 
to  their  call,  as  due  entirely  to  the  dumping  of  a  lot  o’ 
lousy  bums,  sir,  into  filthy  quarters,  or  to  impurities 
of  the  liquid  supply,  or  to — pardon  my  frankness,  sir — 
to  intestinal  effeminacy,  which,  in  flaccid  excitability, 
persisted  in  ill-timed  relaxation  unseemly  in  well-man¬ 
nered  Christians.  Some  future  day,  sir,  there  may  arise 
a  poet  to  glorify  with  beauteous  epic  the  heroic  days 
of  the  modern  Bull  Run — an’  I  kin  tell  you,  laddie, 
they  run  and  kept  runnin’,  top  and  bottom — or  some 


THE  JUDAS 


189 


lyric  bard  may  put  to  Hudibrastic  verse — watch  me 
climbin’  th’  Parnassus,  kid — the  poetic  feet,  the  numbers, 
the  assonance,  and  strain  of  the  inspiring  days  when 
Croton  Oil  was  King.  Yes,  sirree;  but  for  yours  truly, 
me  hand  ain’t  in  such  pies;  and  moreover,  sir,  I  make  it 
an  invariable  rule  of  gentlemanly  behavior  t’  keep  me 
snout  out  o’  other  people’s  biz.” 

“Dempsey  may  be  innocent,  Red.” 

“Well,  th’  joory  didn’t  think  so.  But  there’s  no 
tellin’.  Honest  t’  God,  Aleck,  that  rotten  scab  of  a 
Gallagher  has  cast  the  pale  hue  of  resolution,  if  I  may 
borrow  old  Billy  Shake’s  slang,  sir,  over  me  gener’ly 
settled  convictions.  You  know,  in  the  abundant  plen¬ 
itude  of  my  heterogeneous  experience  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  rats  and  gaycats,  sir,  fortified  by  a 
natural  genius  of  no  mean  order,  of  1859  vintage, 
damme  if  I  ever  run  across  such  an  acute  form  of 
confessionitis  as  manifested  by  the  lout  on  th’  loopin’ 
machine  there.  You  know  what  he  done  yesterday?” 

“What?” 

“Sent  for  th’  distric’  attorney  and  made  another 
confesh.” 

“Really?  How  do  you  know?” 

“Night  screw’s  a  particular  fren’  o’  mine,  kid.  I 
shtands  in,  see?  The  mick’s  a  reg’lar  Yahoo,  can’t 
hardly  spell  ’is  own  name.  He  daily  requisitions  upon 
my  humble  but  abundant  intelligence,  sir,  to  make  out 
his  reports.  Catch  on,  eh?  I’ve  never  earned  a  hand¬ 
out  with  more  dignified  probity,  sir.  It’s  a  cinch.  Last 
night  he  gimme  a  great  slice  of  corn  dodger.  It  was 
A  1,  I  tell  you,  an’  two  hard  boiled  eggs  and  half  a 
tomato,  juicy  and  luscious,  sir.  Didn’t  I  enjoy  it, 
though!  Makes  your  mouth  water,  eh,  kid?  Well, 
you  be  good  t’  me,  an’  you  kin  have  what  I  got.  I’ll  divvy 
up  with  you.  We-11!  Don’  stand  there  an’  gape  at  me 


190  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


like  a  wooden  Injun.  Has  the  unexpected  revelation 
of  my  magnanimous  generosity  deprived  you  of  artic¬ 
ulate  utterance,  sir?” 

The  sly  wink  with  which  he  emphasizes  the  offer, 
and  his  suddenly  serious  manner,  affect  me  unpleasantly. 
With  pretended  indifference,  I  decline  to  share  his  del¬ 
icacies. 

“You  need  those  little  extras  for  yourself,  Red,”  I 
explain.  “You  told  me  you  suffer  from  indigestion.  A 
change  of  diet  now  and  then  will  do  you  good.  But 
you  haven’t  finished  telling  me  about  the  new  con¬ 
fession  of  Gallagher.” 

“Oh,  you’re  a  sly  one,  Aleck;  no  flies  on  you.  But 
it’s  all  right,  me  bye,  mebbe  I  can  do  somethin’  for 
you  some  day.  I’m  your  friend,  Aleck;  count  on  me. 
But  that  mutt  of  a  Gallagher,  yes,  sirree,  made  another 
confession;  damme  if  it  ain’t  his  third  one.  Ever  hear 
such  a  thing?  I  got  it  straight  from  th’  screw  all 
right.  I  can’t  make  the  damn  snitch  out.  Unreservedly 
I  avow,  sir,  that  the  incomprehensible  vacillations  of 
the  honorable  gentleman  puzzle  me  noodle,  and  are  cal¬ 
culated  to  disturb  the  repose  of  a  right-thinking  yagg 
in  the  silken  lap  of  Morpheus.  What’s  ’is  game, 
anyhow  ?  Shall  we  diagnoze  the  peculiar  mental 
menstruation  as,  er — er —  what’s  your  learned  opinion, 
my  illustrious  colleague,  eh?  What  you  grinnin’  for, 
Four  Eyes  ?  It’s  a  serious  matter,  sir ;  a  highly  instructive 
phenomenon  of  intellectual  vacuity,  impregnated  with  the 
pernicious  virus  of  Pinkertonism,  sir,  and  transmuted  in 
the  alembic  of  Carnegie  alchemy.  A  judicious  injection 
of  persuasive  germs  by  the  sagacious  jurisconsults  of 
the  House  of  Dempsey,  and  lo !  three  brand-new  con¬ 
fessions,  mutually  contradictory  and  exclusive.  Does 
that  strike  you  in  th’  right  spot,  sonny?” 


THE  JUDAS 


191 

“In  the  second  confession  he  retracted  his  accusations 
against  Dempsey.  What  is  the  third  about,  Red?” 
“Retracts  his  retraction,  me  bye.  Guess  why,  Aleck.” 
“I  suppose  he  was  paid  to  reaffirm  his  original 
charges.” 

“You’re  not  far  off.  After  that  beauty  of  a  Judas 
cleared  the  man,  Sandy  notified  Reed  and  Knox.  Them’s 
smart  guys,  all  right;  the  attorneys  of  the  Carnegie 
Company  to  interpret  Madame  Justicia,  sir,  in  a  man¬ 
ner — ” 

“I  know,  Red,”  I  interrupt  him,  “they  are  the 
lawyers  who  prosecuted  me.  Even  in  court  they  were 
giving  directions  to  the  district  attorney,  and  openly 
whispering  to  him  questions  to  be  asked  the  witnesses. 
He  was  just  a  figurehead  and  a  tool  for  them,  and  it 
sounded  so  ridiculous  when  he  told  the  jury  that  he 
was  not  in  the  service  of  any  individual  or  corporation, 
but  that  he  acted  solely  as  an  officer  of  the  common¬ 
wealth,  charged  with  the  sacred  duty  of  protecting  its 
interests  in  my  prosecution.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
the  mouthpiece  of  Frick’s  lawyers.” 

“Hold  on,  kid.  I  don’t  get  a  chance  to  squeeze  a 
word  in  edgewise  when  you  start  jawin’.  Think  you’re 
on  th’  platform  haranguing  the  long-haired  crowd?  You 
can’t  convert  me,  so  save  your  breath,  man.” 

“I  shouldn’t  want  to  convert  you,  Red.  You  are 
intelligent,  but  a  hopeless  case.  You  are  not  the  kind 
that  could  be  useful  to  the  Cause.” 

“Glad  you’re  next.  Got  me  sized  up  all  right,  eh? 
Well,  me  saintly  bye,  I’m  Johnny-on-the-spot  to  serve 
the  cause,  all  right,  all  right,  and  the  cause  is  Me,  with 
a  big  M,  see?  A  fellow’s  a  fool  not  t’  look  out  for 
number  one.  I  give  it  t’  you  straight,  Aleck.  What’s 
them  high-flown  notions  of  yours — oppressed  humanity 
and  suffering  people — fiddlesticks!  There  you  go  and 


192  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


shove  your  damn  neck  into  th’  noose  for  the  strikers, 
but  what  did  them  fellows  ever  done  for  you,  eh?  Tell 
me  that !  They  won’t  do  a  darned  thing  f er  you.  Catch 
me  swinging  for  the  peo-pul!  The  cattle  don’t  deserve 
any  better  than  they  get,  that’s  what  I  say.” 

“I  don’t  want  to  discuss  these  questions  with  you, 
Red.  You’ll  never  understand,  anyhow.” 

“Git  off,  now.  You  voice  a  sentiment,  sir,  that  my 
adequate  appreciation  of  myself  would  prompt  me  to 
resent  on  the  field  of  honor,  sir.  But  the  unworthy 
spirit  of  acerbity  is  totally  foreign  to  my  nature,  sir, 
and  1  shall  preserve  the  blessed  meekness  so  becoming 
the  true  Christian,  and  shall  follow  the  bidding  of  the 
Master  by  humbly  offering  the  other  cheek  for  that 
chaw  of  th’  weed  I  gave  you.  Dig  down  into  your 
poke,  kid.” 

I  hand  him  the  remnant  of  my  tobacco,  remarking: 

“You’ve  lost  the  thread  of  our  conversation,  as  usual, 
Red.  You  said  the  Warden  sent  for  the  Carnegie 
lawyers  after  Gallagher  had  recanted  his  original  con¬ 
fession.  Well,  what  did  they  do?” 

“Don’t  know  what  they  done,  but  I  tole  you  that 
the  muttonhead  sent  for  th’  district  attorney  the  same 
day,  an’  signed  a  third  confesh.  Why,  Dempsey  was 
tickled  to  death,  ’cause — ” 

He  ceases  abruptly.  His  quick,  short  coughs  warn 
me  of  danger.  Accompanied  by  the  Deputy  and  the 
shop  officer,  the  Warden  is  making  the  rounds  of  the 
machines,  pausing  here  and  there  to  examine  the  work, 
and  listen  to  the  request  of  a  prisoner.  The  youthfully 
sparkling  eyes  present  a  striking  contrast  to  the  sedate 
manner  and  seamed  features  framed  in  grayish-white. 
Approaching  the  table,  he  greets  us  with  a  benign  smile: 

“Good  morning,  boys.” 


THE  JUDAS 


193 


Casting  a  glance  at  my  assistant,  the  Warden  inquires : 
“Your  time  must  be  up  soon,  Red?” 

“Been  out  and  back  again,  Cap’n,”  the  officer  laughs. 

“Yes,  he  is,  hm,  hm,  back  home.”  The  thin  feminine 
accents  of  the  Deputy  sound  sarcastic. 

“Didn’t  like  it  outside,  Red?”  the  Warden  sneers. 

A  flush  darkens  the  face  of  the  assistant.  “There’s 
more  skunks  out  than  in,”  he  retorts. 

The  Captain  frowns.  The  Deputy  lifts  a  warning 
finger,  but  the  Warden  laughs  lightly,  and  continues  on 
his  rounds. 

We  work  in  silence  for  a  while.  “Red”  looks  restive, 
his  eyes  stealthily  following  the  departing  officials. 
Presently  he  whispers : 

“See  me  hand  it  to  ’im,  Aleck?  He  knows  I’m  on 
to  ’im,  all  right.  Didn’t  he  look  mad,  though  ?  Thought 
he’d  burst.  Sobered  ’im  up  a  bit.  Pipe  ’is  lamps,  kid?” 

“Yes.  Very  bright  eyes.” 

“Bright  eyes  your  grandmother !  Dope,  that’s  what’s 
th’  matter.  Think  I’d  get  off  as  easy  if  he  wasn’t  chuck 
full  of  th’  stuff?  I  knowed  it  the  minute  I  laid  me 

t 

eyes  on  ’im.  I  kin  tell  by  them  shinin’  glimmers  and 
that  sick  smile  of  his,  when  he’s  feelin’  good;  know  th’ 
signals,  all  right.  Always  feelin’  fine  when  he’s  hit  th’ 
pipe.  That’s  th’  time  you  kin  get  anythin’  you  wan’ 
of  ’im.  Nex’  time  you  see  that  smirk  on  ’im,  hit  ’im 
for  some  one  t’  give  us  a  hand  here;  we’s  goin’  t’  be 
drowned  in  them  socks,  first  thing  you  know.” 

“Yes,  we  need  more  help.  Why  didn’t  you  ask  him?” 

“Me?  Me  ask  a  favor  o’  the  damn  swine?  Not  on 
your  tintype!  You  don’  catch  me  to  vouchsafe  the  high 
and  mighty,  sir,  the  opportunity — ” 

“All  right,  Red.  I  won’t  ask  him,  either.” 

“I  don’t  give  a  damn.  For  all  I  care,  Aleck,  and 
— well,  confidentially  speaking,  sir,  they  may  ensconce 


194  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


their  precious  hosiery  in  the  infundibular  dehiscence  of 
his  Nibs,  which,  if  I  may  venture  my  humble  opinion, 
young  sir,  is  sufficiently  generous  in  its  expansiveness 
to  disregard  the  rugosity  of  a  stocking  turned  inside 
out,  sir.  Do  you  follow  the  argument,  me  bye?” 

“With  difficulty,  Red,”  I  reply,  with  a  smile.  “What 
are  you  really  talking  about?  I  do  wish  you’d  speak 
plainer.” 

“You  do,  do  you?  An’  mebbe  you  don’t.  Got  to 
train  you  right;  gradual,  so  to  speak.  It’s  me  dooty 
to  a  prushun.  But  we’se  got  t’  get  help  here.  I  ain’t 
goin’  t’  kill  meself  workin’  like  a  nigger.  I’ll  quit  first. 
D’  you  think — s-s-ss!” 

The  shop  officer  is  returning.  “Damn  your  impu¬ 
dence,  Red,”  he  shouts  at  the  assistant.  “Why  don’t  you 
keep  that  tongue  of  yours  in  check?” 

“Why,  Mr.  Cosson,  what’s  th’  trouble?” 

“You  know  damn  well  what’s  the  trouble.  You  made 
the  old  man  mad  clean  through.  You  ought  t’  know 
better’n  that.  He  was  nice  as  pie  till  you  opened  that 
big  trap  of  yourn.  Everythin’  went  wrong  then.  He 
gave  me  th’  dickens  about  that  pile  you  got  lyin’  aroun’ 
here.  Why  don’t  you  take  it  over  to  th’  loopers,  Burk  ?” 

“They  have  not  been  turned  yet,”  I  reply. 

“What  d’  you  say?  Not  turned !”  he  bristles.  “What 
-  in  hell  are  you  fellows  doin’,  I’d  like  t’  know.” 

“We’re  doin’  more’n  we  should,”  “Red”  retorts, 
defiantly. 

“Shut  up  now,  an’  get  a  .move  on  you.” 

“On  that  rotten  grub  they  feed  us?”  the  assistant 
persists. 

“You  better  shut  up,  Red.” 

/  “Then  give  us  some  help.” 

“I  will  like  hell!” 

The  whistle  sounds  the  dinner  hour. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE  DIP 

For  a  week  “Boston  Red”  is  absent  from  work. 
My  best  efforts  seem  ineffectual  in  the  face  of  the 
increasing  mountain  of  unturned  hosiery,  and  the  officer 
grows  more  irritable  and  insistent.  But  the  fear  of 
clogging  the  industrial  wheel  presently  forces  him  to 
give  me  assistance,  and  a  dapper  young  man,  keen-eyed 
and  nervous,  takes  the  vacant  place. 

“He’s  a  dip,”*  Johnny  Davis  whispers  to  me.  “A 
top-notcher,”  he  adds,  admiringly. 

I  experience  a  tinge  of  resentment  at  the  equality 
implied  by  the  forced  association.  I  have  never  before 
come  in  personal  contact  with  a  professional  thief,  and 
I  entertain  the  vaguest  ideas  concerning  his  class.  But' 
they  are  not  producers ;  hence  parasites  who  deliberately 
prey  upon  society,  upon  the  poor,  mostly.  There  can 
be  nothing  in  common  between  me  and  this  man. 


The  new  helper’s  conscious  superiority  is  provoking. 

.  His  distant  manner  piques  my  curiosity.  How  unlike 
his  scornful  mien  and  proudly  independent  bearing  is 
my  youthful  impression  of  a  thief!  Vividly  I  remember 
the  red-headed  Kolya,  as  he  was  taken  from  the  class¬ 
room  by  a  fierce  gendarme.  The  boys  had  been  missing 
their  lunches,  and  Kolya  confessed  the  theft.  We  ran 


*  Pickpocket. 


195 


196  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


after  the  prisoner,  and  he  hung  his  head  and  looked 
frightened,  and  so  pale  I  could  count  each  freckle  on  his 
face.  He  did  not  return  to  school,  and  I  wondered 
what  had  become  of  him.  The  terror  in  his  eyes 
haunted  my  dreams,  the  brown  spots  on  his  forehead 
shaping  themselves  into  fiery  letters,  spelling  the  fearful 
word  vor  * 

“That’s  a  snap,”  the  helper’s  voice  breaks  in  on  my 
reverie.  He  speaks  in  well-modulated  tones,  the  accents 
nasal  and  decided.  “You  needn’t  be  afraid  to  talk,”  he 
adds,  patronizingly. 

“I  am  not  afraid,”  I  impatiently  resent  the  insinua¬ 
tion.  “Why  should  I  be  afraid  of  you?” 

“Not  of  me;  of  the  officer,  I  meant.” 

“I  am  not  afraid  of  him,  either.” 

“Well,  then,  let’s  talk  about  something.  It  will  help 
while  away  the  time,  you  know.” 

His  cheerful  friendliness  smooths  my  ruffled  temper. 
The  correct  English,  in  striking  contrast  with  the 
peculiar  language  of  my  former  assistant,  surprises  me. 

“I  am  sorry,”  he  continues,  “they  gave  you  such  a 
long  sentence,  Mr.  Berkman,  but — ” 

“How  do  you  know  my  name?”  I  interrupt.  “You 
have  just  arrived.” 

“They  call  me  ‘Lightning  AT,”  he  replies,  with  a 
tinge  of  pride.  “I’m  here  only  three  days,  but  a  fellow 
in  my  line  can  learn  a  great  deal  in  that  time.  I  had 
you  pointed  out  to  me.” 

“What  do  you  call  your  line?  What  are  you 
here  for?” 

For  a  moment  he  is  silent.  With  surprise  I  watch 
his  face  blush  darkly. 


*  Thief. 


THE  DIP 


197 


“You’re  a  dead  give-away.  Oh,  excuse  me,  Mr. 
Berkman,”  he  corrects  himself,  “I  sometimes  lapse  into 
lingo,  under  provocation,  you  know.  I  meant  to  say, 
it’s  easy  to  see  that  you  are  not  next  to  the  way — not 
familiar,  I  mean;  with  such  things.  You  should  never 
ask  a  man  what  he  is  in  for.” 

“Why  not?” 

“Well,  er— ” 

“You  are  ashamed.” 

“Not  a  bit  of  it.  Ashamed  to  fall,  perhaps, — I  mean, 
to  be  caught  at  it — it’s  no  credit  to  a  gun’s  rep,  his 
reputation,  you  understand.  But  I’m  proud  of  the  jobs 
I’ve  done.  I’m  pretty  slick,  you  know.” 

“But  you  don’t  like  to  be  asked  why  you  were  sent 
here.” 

“Well,  it’s  not  good  manners  to  ask  such  questions.” 

“Against  the  ethics  of  the  trade,  I  suppose?” 

“How  sarcastic  we  can  be,  Mr.  Berkman.  But  it’s 
true,  it’s  not  the  ethics.  And  it  isn’t  a  trade,  either ;  it’s 
a  profession.  Oh,  you  may  smile,  but  I’d  rather  be  a 
gun,  a  professional,  I  mean,  than  one  of  your  stupid 
factory  hands.” 

“They  are  honest,  though.  Honest  producers,  while 
you  are  a  thief.” 

“Oh,  there’s  no  sting  in  that  word  for  me.  I  take 
pride  in  being  a  thief,  and  what’s  more,  I  am  an  A 
number  one  gun,  you  see  the  point?  The  best  dip  in 
the  States.” 

“A  pickpocket?  Stealing  nickels  off  passengers  on 
the  street  cars,  and — ” 

“Me?  A  hell  of  a  lot  you  know  about  it.  Take  me 
for  such  small  fry,  do  you?  I  work  only  on  race  tracks.” 

“You  call  it  work?” 


198  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Sure.  Damned  hard  work,  too.  Takes  more 
brains  than  a  whole  shopful  of  your  honest  producers 
can  show.” 

“And  you  prefer  that  to  being  honest?” 

“Do  I?  I  spend  more  on  gloves  than  a  bricklayer 
makes  in  a  year.  Think  I’m  so  dumb  I  have  to  slave 
all  week  for  a  few  dollars?” 

“But  you  spend  most  of  your  life'  in  prison.” 

“Not  by  a  long  shot.  A  real  good  gun’s  always  got 
his  fall  money  planted, — I  mean  some  ready  coin  in  case 
of  trouble, — and  a  smart  lawyer  will  spring  you  most 
every  time;  beat  the  case,  you  know.  I’ve  never  seen 
the  fly-cop  you  couldn’t  fix  if  you  got  enough  dough; 
and  most  judges,  too.  Of  course,  now  and  then,  the 
best  of  us  may  fall ;  but  it  don’t  happen  very  often,  and 
it’s  all  in  the  game.  This  whole  life  is  a  game,  Mr. 
Berkman,  and  every  one’s  got  his  graft.” 

“Do  you  mean  there  are  no  honest  men?”  I  ask, 
angrily. 

“Pshaw!  I’m  just  as  honest  as  Rockefeller  or 
Carnegie,  only  they  got  the  law  with  them.  And  I  work 
harder  than  they,  I’ll  bet  you  on  that.  I’ve  got  to  eat, 
haven’t  I?  Of  course,”  he  adds,  thoughtfully,  “if  I 
could  be  sure  of  my  bread  and  butter,  perhaps — ” 

The  passing  overseer  smiles  at  the  noted  pickpocket, 
inquiring  pleasantly: 

“How’re  you  doin’,  Al?” 

“Tip-top,  Mr.  Cosson.  Hope  you  are  feeling  good 
to-day.” 

“Never  better,  Al.” 

“A  friend  of  mine  often  spoke  to  me  about  you,  Mr. 
Cosson.” 

“Who  was  that?” 


THE  DIP 


199 


“Barney.  Jack  Barney.” 

“Jack  Barney!  Why,  he  worked  for  me  in  the 
broom  shop.” 

“Yes,  he  did  a  three-spot.  He  often  said  to  me,  ‘Al, 
if  you  ever  land  in  Riverside,’  he  says,  ‘be  sure  you 
don’t  forget  to  give  my  best  to  Mr.  Cosson,  Mr.  Ed. 
Cosson,’  he  says,  ‘he’s  a  good  fellow.’  ” 

The  officer  looks  pleased.  “Yes,  I  treated  him  white, 
all  right,”  he  remarks,  continuing  on  his  rounds. 

“I  knew  he’d  swallow  it,”  the  assistant  sneers  after 
him.  “Always  good  to  get  on  the  right  side  of  them,” 
he  adds,  with  a  wink.  “Barney  told  me  about  him  all 
right.  Said  he’s  the  rottenest  sneak  in  the  dump,  a 
swell-head  yap.  You  see,  Mr.  Berkman, — may  I  call 
you  Aleck?  It’s  shorter.  Well,  you  see,  Aleck,  I  make 
it  a  point  to  find  things  out.  It’s  wise  to  know  the 
ropes.  I’m  next  to  the  whole  bunch  here.  That  Jimmy 
McPane,  the  Deputy,  he’s  a  regular  brute.  Killed  his 
man,  all  right.  Barney  told  me  all  about  it;  he  was 
doing  his  bit,  then, — 1  mean  serving  his  sentence.  You 
see,  Aleck,”  he  lowers  his  voice,  confidentially,  “I  don’t 
Tike  to  use  slang;  it  grows  on  one,  and  every  fly-cop 
can  spot  you  as  a  crook.  It’s  necessary  in  my  business 
to  present  a  fine  front  and  use  good  English,  so  I  must 
not  get  the  lingo  habit.  Well,  I  was  speaking  of  Barney 
telling  me  about  the  Deputy.  He  killed  a  con  in  cold 
blood.  The  fellow  was  bughouse,  D.  T.,  you  know; 
saw  snakes.  He  ran  out  of  his  cell  one  morning, 
swinging  a  chair  and  hollering  ‘Murder !  Kill  ’em !’  The 
Deputy  was  just  passing  along,  and  he  out  with  his 
gat — I  mean  his  revolver,  you  know — and  bangs  away. 
He  pumped  the  poor  loony  fellow  full  of  holes;  he 
did,  the  murderer.  Killed  him  dead.  Never  was  tried, 
either.  Warden  told  the  newspapers  it  was  done  in 
self-defence.  A  damn  lie.  Sandy  knew  better;  every- 


200.  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


body  in  the  dump  knew  it  was  a  cold-blooded  murder, 
with  no  provocation  at  all.  It’s  a  regular  ring,  you  see, 
and  that  old  Warden  is  the  biggest  grafter  of  them  all; 
and  that  sky-pilot,  too,  is  an  A  i  fakir.  Did  you  hear 
about  the  kid  born  here?  Before  your  time.  A  big 
scandal.  Since  then  the  holy  man’s  got  to  have  a  screw 
with  him  at  Sunday  service  for  the  females,  and  I  tell 
you  he  needs  watching  all  right.” 

The  whistle  terminates  the  conversation. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  URGE  OF  SEX 


Sunday  night:  my  new  cell  on  the  upper  gallery  is 
hot  and  stuffy ;  I  cannot  sleep.  Through  the  bars,  I  gaze 
upon  the  Ohio.  The  full  moon  hangs  above  the  river, 
bathing  the  waters  in  mellow  light.  The  .strains  of  a 
sweet  lullaby  wander  through  the  woods,  and  the  banks 
are  merry  with  laughter.  A  girlish  cadence  rings  like 
a  silvery  bell,  and  voices  call  in  the  distance.  Life  is 
joyous  and  near,  terribly,  tantalizingly  near, — but  all  is 
silent  and  dead  around  me. 

For  days  the  feminine  voice  keeps  ringing  in  my 
ears.  It  sounded  so  youthful  and  buoyant,  so  fondly 
alluring.  A  beautiful  girl,  no  doubt.  What  joy  to  feast 
my  eyes  on  her!  I  have  not  beheld  a  woman  for  many 
months :  I  long  to  hear  the  soft  accents,  feel  the  tender 
touch.  My  mind  persistently  reverts  to  the  voice  on  the 
river,  the  sweet  strains  in  the  woods ;  and  fancy  wreathes 
sad-toned  fugues  upon  the  merry  carol,  paints  vision 
and  image,  as  I  pace  the  floor  in  agitation.  They  live, 
they  breathe!  I  see  the  slender  figure  with  the  swelling 
bosom,  the  delicate  white  throat,  the  babyish  face  with 
large,  wistful  eyes.  Why,  it  is  Luba !  My  blood  tingles 
violently,  passionately,  as  I  live  over  again  the  rapturous 
wonder  at  the  first  touch  of  her  maiden  breast.  How 
temptingly  innocent  sounded  the  immodest  invitation  on 
the  velvety  lips,  how  exquisite  the  suddenness  of  it  all! 
We  were  in  New  Haven  then.  One  by  one  we  had 

201 


202  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


gathered,  till  the  little  New  York  commune  was  complete. 
The  Girl  joined  me  first,  for  I  felt  lonely  in  the  strange 
city,  drudging  as  compositor  on  a  country  weekly,  the 
evenings  cold  and  cheerless  in  the  midst  of  a  conservative 
household.  But  the  Girl  brought  light  and  sunshine, 
and  then  came  the  Twin  and  Manya.  Luba  remained 
in  New  York;  but  Manya,  devoted  little  soul,  yearned 
for  her  sister,  and  presently  the  three  girls  worked 
side  by  side  in  the  corset  factory.  All  seemed  happy 
in  the  free  atmosphere,  and  Luba  was  blooming  into 
beautiful  womanhood.  There  was  a  vague  something 
about  her  that  now  and  then  roused  in  me  a  fond  longing, 
a  rapturous  desire.  Once — it  was  in  New  York,  a  year 
before — I  had  experienced  a  sudden  impulse  toward  her. 
It  seized  me  unheralded,  unaccountably.  I  had  called 
to  try  a  game  of  chess  with  her  father,  when  he  informed 
me  that  Luba  had  been  ill.  She  was  recovering  now, 
and  would  be  pleased  to  see  me.  I  sat  at  the  bedside, 
conversing  in  low  tones,  when  I  noticed  the  pillows 
slipping  from  under  the  girl’s  head.  Bending  over,  I 
involuntarily  touched  her  hair,  loosely  hanging  down  the 
side.  The  soft,  dark  chestnut  thrilled  me,  and  the  next 
instant  I  stooped  and  stealthily  pressed  the  silken  waves 
to  my  lips.  The  momentary  sense  of  shame  was  lost  in 
the  feeling  of  reverence  for  the  girl  with  the  beautiful 
hair,  that  bewildered  and  fascinated  me,  and  a  deep 
yearning  suddenly  possessed  me,  as  she  lay  in  exquisite 
disarray,  full  of  grace  and  beauty.  And  all  the  while  we 
talked,  my  eyes  feasted  on  her  ravishing  form,  and  I  felt 
envious  of  her  future  lover,  and  hated  the  desecration. 
But  when  I  left  her  bedside,  all  trace  of  desire  disap¬ 
peared,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  moment  faded  like  a 
vision  affrighted  by  the  dawn.  Only  a  transient,  vague 
inquietude  remained,  as  of  something  unattainable. 

Then  came  that  unforgettable  moment  of  undreamed 


THE  URGE  OF  SEX 


203 


bliss.  We  had  just  returned  from  the  performance 
of  Tosca,  with  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  her  inimitable 
role.  I  had  to  pass  through  Luba’s  room  on  my  way 
to  the  attic,  in  the  little  house  occupied  by  the  com¬ 
mune.  She  had  already  retired,  but  was  still  awake.  I 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  we  talked  of  the 
play.  She  glowed  with  the  inspiration  of  the  great 
tragedienne ;  then,  somehow,  she  alluded  to  the  decollete 
of  the  actresses. 

“I  don’t  mind  a  fine  bust  exposed  on  the  stage,”  I 
remarked.  “But  I  had  a  powerful  opera  glass:  their 
breasts  looked  fleshy  and  flabby.  It  was  disgusting.” 

“Do  you  think — mine  nice?”  she  asked,  suddenly. 

For  a  second  I  was  bewildered.  But  the  question 
sounded  so  enchantingly  unpremeditated,  so  innocently 
eager. 

“I  never —  Let  me  see  them,”  I  said,  impulsively. 

“No,  no!”  she  cried,  in  aroused  modesty;  “I  can’t,  I 
can’t!” 

“I  won’t  look,  Luba.  See,  I  close  my  eyes.  Just  a 
touch.” 

“Oh,  I  can’t,  I’m  ashamed !  Only  over  the  blanket, 
please,  Sasha,”  she  pleaded,  as  my  hand  softly  stole 
under  the  covers.  She  gripped  the  sheet  tightly,  and 
my  arm  rested  on  her  side.  The  touch  of  the  firm, 
round  breast  thrilled  me  with  passionate  ecstasy.  In 
fear  of  arousing  her  maidenly  resistance,  I  strove  to 
hide  my  exultation,  while  cautiously  and  tenderly  I  re¬ 
leased  the  coverlet. 

“They  are  very  beautiful,  Luba,”  I  said,  controlling 
the  tremor  of  my  voice. 

“You — like  them,  really,  Sasha?”  The  large  eyes 
looked  lustrous  and  happy. 

“They  are  Greek,  dear,”  and  snatching  the  last  cover¬ 
ing  aside,  I  kissed  her  between  the  breasts. 


204  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“I’m  so  glad  I  came  here,”  she  spoke  dreamily. 

“Were  you  very  lonesome  in  New  York?” 

“It  was  terrible,  Sasha.” 

“You  like  the  change?” 

“Oh,  you  silly  boy!  Don’t  you  know?” 

“What,  Luba?” 

“I  wanted  you,  dear.”  Her  arms  twined  softly 
about  me. 

I  felt  appalled.  The  Girl,  my  revolutionary  plans, 
flitted  through  my  mind,  chilling  me  with  self-reproach. 
The  pale  hue  of  the  attained  cast  its  shadow  across  the 
spell,  and  I  lay  cold  and  quiet  on  Luba’s  breast.  The 
coverlet  was  slipping  down,  and,  reaching  for  it,  my 
hand  inadvertently  touched  her  knee. 

“Sasha,  how  can  you!”  she  cried  in  alarm,  sitting  up 
with  terrified  eyes. 

“I  didn’t  mean  to,  Luba.  How  could  you  think 
that  of  me?”  I  was  deeply  mortified. 

My  hand  relaxed  on  her  breast.  We  lay  in  silent 
embarrassment. 

“It  is  getting  late,  Sasha.”  She  tenderly  drew  my 
head  to  her  bosom. 

“A  little  while  yet,  dear,”  and  again  the  enchant¬ 
ment  of  the  virgin  breasts  was  upon  me,  and  I  showered 
wild  kisses  on  them,  and  pressed  them  passionately, 
madly,  till  she  cried  out  in  pain. 

“You  must  go  now,  dear.” 

“Good  night,  Luba.” 

“Good  night,  dearest.  You  haven’t  kissed  me, 
Sashenka.” 

I  felt  her  detaining  lips,  as  I  left. 


In  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  night,  the  urge  of  sex 
grows  more  and  more  insistent.  Scenes  from  the  past 


THE  URGE  OF  SEX 


205 


live  in  my  thoughts;  the  cell  is  peopled  with  familiar 
faces.  Episodes  long  dead  to  memory  rise  animated 
before  me ;  they  emerge  from  the  darkest  chambers  of  my 
soul,  and  move  with  intense  reality,  like  the  portraits 
of  my  sires  come  to  life  in  the  dark,  fearful  nights  of 
my  childhood.  Pert  Masha  smiles  at  me  from  her  win¬ 
dow  across  the  street,  and  a  bevy  of  girls  pass  me  de¬ 
murely,  with  modestly  averted  gaze,  and  then  call 
back  saucily,  in  thinly  disguised  voices.  Again  I  am 
with  my  playmates,  trailing  the  schoolgirls  on  their 
way  to  the  river,  and  we  chuckle  gleefully  at  their  af¬ 
fright  and  confusion,  as  they  discover  the  eyes  glued  to 
the  peep-holes  we  had  cut  in  the  booth.  Inwardly  I 
resent  Nadya’s  bathing  in  her  shirt,  and  in  revenge  dive 
beneath  the  boards,  rising  to  the  surface  in  the  midst  of 
the  girls,  who  run  to  cover  in  shame  and  terror.  But 
I  grow  indignant  at  Vainka  who  badgers  the  girls  with 
“Tsiba,*  tsiba,  ba-aa!”  and  I  soundly  thrash  Kolya  for 
shouting  nasty  epithets  across  the  school  yard  at  little 
Nunya,  whom  I  secretly  adore. 

But  the  note  of  later  days  returns  again  and  again, 
and  the  scenes  of  youth  recede  into  their  dim  frames. 
Clearer  and  more  frequently  appear  Sonya  and  Luba,  and 
the  little  sweetheart  of  my  first  months  in  America.  What 
a  goose  she  was!  She  would  not  embrace  me,  because 
it’s  a  great  sin,  unless  one  is  married.  But  how  slyly 
she  managed  to  arrange  kissing  games  at  the  Sunday 
gatherings  at  her  home,  and  always  lose  to  me!  She 
must  be  quite  a  woman  now,  with  a  husband,  chil¬ 
dren  .  .  .  Quickly  she  flits  by,  the  recollection  even 
of  her  name  lost  in  the  glow  of  Anarchist  emotionalism 
and  the  fervent  enthusiasm  of  my  Orchard  Street  days. 
There  flames  the  light  that  irradiates  the  vague  long- 


*  Goat :  derisively  applied  to  schoolgirls. 


20 6  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

\ 


ings  of  my  Russian  youth,  and  gives  rapt  interpretation 
to  obscurely  pulsating  idealism.  It  sheds  the  halo  of 
illuminating  justification  upon  my  blindly  rebellious 
spirit,  and  visualizes  my  dreams  on  the  sunlit  moun¬ 
tains.  The  sordid  misery  of  my  “greenhorn”  days  as¬ 
sumes  a  new  aspect.  Ah,  the  wretchedness  of  those 
first  years  in  America!  ....  And  still  Time’s  woof  and 
warp  unroll  the  tapestry  of  life  in  the  New  World,  its 
joys  and  heart-throbs.  I  stand  a  lone  stranger,  bewil¬ 
dered  by  the  flurry  of  Castle  Garden,  yet  strong  with 
hope  and  courage  to  carve  my  fate  in  freedom.  The 
Tsar  is  far  away,  and  the  fear  of  his  hated  Cossacks  is 
past.  How  inspiring  is  liberty!  The  very  air  breathes 
enthusiasm  and  strength,  and  with  confident  ardor  I  em¬ 
brace  the  new  life.  I  join  the  ranks  of  the  world’s  pro¬ 
ducers,  and  glory  in  the  full  manhood  conferred  by  the 
dignity  of  labor.  I  resent  the  derision  of  my  adopted 
country  on  the  part  of  my  family  abroad, — resent  it 
hotly.  I  feel  wronged  by  the  charge  of  having  disgraced 
my  parents’  respected  name  by  turning  “a  low,  dirty 
workingman.”  I  combat  their  snobbishness  vehemently, 
and  revenge  the  indignity  to  labor  by  challenging  com¬ 
parison  between  the  Old  and  the  New  World.  Behold 
the  glory  of  liberty  and  prosperity,  the  handiwork  of  a 
nation  that  honors  labor!  .  .  .  The  loom  of  Time  keeps 
weaving.  Lone  and  friendless,  I  struggle  in  the  new 
land.  Life  in  the  tenements  is  sordid,  the  fate  of  the 
worker  dreary.  There  is  no  “dignity  of  labor.”  Sweat¬ 
shop  bread  is  bitter.  Oppression  guards  the  golden  prom¬ 
ise,  and  servile  brutality  is  the  only  earnest  of  success. 
Then  like  a  clarion  note  in  the  desert  sounds  the  call  of 
the  Ideal.  Strong  and  rousing  rolls  the  battle-cry  of 
Revolution.  Like  a  flash  in  the  night,  it  illumines  my 
groping.  My  life  becomes  full  of  new  meaning  and  in¬ 
terest,  translated  into  the  struggle  of  a  world’s  emancipa- 


THE  URGE  OF  SEX 


207 


tion.  Fedya  joins  me,  and  together  we  are  absorbed  in 
the  music  of  the  new  humanity. 

It  is  all  far,  far — yet  every  detail  is  sharply  etched 
upon  my  memory.  Swiftly  pass  before  me  the  years  of 
complete  consecration  to  the  movement,  the  self-im¬ 
posed  poverty  and  sacrifices,  the  feverish  tide  of  agi¬ 
tation  in  the  wake  of  the  Chicago  martyrdom,  the  eve¬ 
nings  of  spirited  debate,  the  nights  of  diligent  study. 
And  over  all  loom  the  Fridays  in  the  little  dingy  hall 
in  the  Ghetto,  where  the  handful  Qf  Russian  refugees 
gather;  where  bold  imprecations  are  thundered  against 
the  tyranny  and  injustice  of  the  existing,  and  winged 
words  prophesy  the  near  approach  of  a  glorious  Dawn. 
Beshawled  women,  and  men,  long-coated  and  piously 
bearded,  steal  into  the  hall  after  synagogue  prayers,  and 
listen  with  wondering  eyes,  vainly  striving  to  grasp  the 
strange  Jewish,  so  perplexedly  interspersed  with  the 
alien  words  of  the  new  evangel.  How  our  hearts  re¬ 
joice,  as,  with  exaggerated  deference,  we  eagerly  en¬ 
courage  the  diffident  questioner,  “Do  you  really  mean — 
may  the  good  Lord  forgive  me — there  is  no  one  in 
heaven  above?”  .  .  .  Late  in  the  evening  the  meeting 
resolves  into  small  groups,  heatedly  contending  over 
the  speaker’s  utterances,  the  select  circle  finally  adjourn¬ 
ing  to  “the  corner.”  The  obscure  little  tea  room  re¬ 
sounds  with  the  joust  of  learning  and  wit.  Fascinat¬ 
ing  is  the  feast  of  reason,  impassioned  the  flow  of  soul, 
as  the  passage-at-arms  grows  more  heated  with  the 
advance  of  the  night.  The  alert-eyed  host  diplomatically 
pacifies  the  belligerent  factions,  “Gentlemen,  gentlemen, 
s-sh !  The  police  station  is  just  across  the  street.”  There 
is  a  lull  in  the  combat.  The  angry  opponents  frown  at 
each  other,  and  in  the  interim  the  Austrian  Student  in  his 
mellow  voice  begins  an  interminable  story  of  personal 


208  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


reminiscence,  apropos  of  nothing  and  starting  nowhere, 
but  intensely  absorbing.  With  sparkling  eyes  he  holds  us 
spellbound,  relating  the  wonderful  journey,  taking  us 
through  the  Nevsky  in  St.  Petersburg,  thence  to  the 
Caucasus,  to  engage  in  the  blood-feuds  of  the  Tcherkessi; 
or,  enmeshed  in  a  perilous  flirtation  with  an  Albanian 
beauty  in  a  Moslem  harem,  he  descants  on  the  philosophy 
of  Mohammed,  imperceptibly  shifting  the  scene  to  the 
Nile  to  hunt  the  hippopotamus,  and  suddenly  interrupting 
the  amazing  adventures  by  introducing  an  acquaintance 
of  the  evening,  “My  excellent  friend,  the  coming  great 
Italian  virtuoso,  from  Odessa,  gentlemen.  He  will 
entertain  us  with  an  aria  from  Trovatore”  But  the 
circle  is  not  in  a  musical  mood:  some  one  challenges 
the  Student’s  familiarity  with  the  Moslem  philosophy, 
and  the  Twin  hints  at  the  gossiped  intimacy  of  the 
Austrian  with  Christian  missionaries.  There  are  pro¬ 
testations,  and  loud  clamor  for  an  explanation.  The 
Student  smilingly  assents,  and  presently  he  is  launched 
upon  the  Chinese  sea,  in  the  midst  of  a  strange  caravan, 
trading  tea  at  Yachta,  and  aiding  a  political  to  escape 
to  Vladivostok.  .  .  .  The  night  pales  before  the  waking 
sun,  the  Twin  yawns,  and  I  am  drowsy  with — 

“Cof-fee!  Want  coffee?  Hey,  git  up  there !  Didn’t 
you  hear  th’  bell?” 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  WARDEN’S  THREAT 

I 

The  dying  sun  grows  pale  with  haze  and  fog.  Slowly 
the  dark-gray  line  undulates  across  the  shop,  and  draws 
its  sinuous  length  along  the  gloaming  yard.  The  shadowy 
waves  cleave  the  thickening  mist,  vibrate  ghostlike,  and 
are  swallowed  in  the  yawning  blackness  of  the  cell-house. 

“Aleck,  Aleck!”  I  hear  an  excited  whisper  behind 
me,  “quick,  plant  it.  The  screw’s  goin’  t’  frisk*  me.” 

Something  small  and  hard  is  thrust  into  my  coat 
pocket.  The  guard  in  front  stops  short,  suspiciously 
scanning  the  passing  men. 

“Break  ranks!” 

The  overseer  approaches  me.  “You  are  wanted  in 
the  office,  Berk.” 

The  Warden,  blear-eyed  and  sallow,  frowns  as  I 
am  led  in. 

“What  have  you  got  on  you  ?”  he  demands,  abruptly. 

“I  don’t  understand  you.” 

“Yes,  you  do.  Have  you  money  on  you?” 

“I  have  not.” 

“Who  sends  clandestine  mail  for  you?” 

“What  mail?” 


*  Search. 


209 


210  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“The  letter  published  in  the  Anarchist  sheet  in  New 
York.” 

I  feel  greatly  relieved.  The  letter  in  question  passed 
through  official  channels. 

“It  went  through  the  Chaplain’s  hands,”  I  reply, 
boldly. 

“It  isn’t  true.  Such  a  letter  could  never  pass  Mr. 
Milligan.  Mr.  Cosson,”  he  turns  to  the  guard,  “fetch 
the  newspaper  from  my  desk.” 

The  Warden’s  hands  tremble  as  he  points  to  the 
marked  item.  “Here  it  is !  You  talk  of  revolution,  and 
comrades,  and  Anarchism.  Mr.  Milligan  never  saw 
that ,  I’m  sure.  It’s  a  nice  thing  for  the  papers  to  say 
that  you  are  editing — from  the  prison,  mind  you — editing 
an  Anarchist  sheet  in  New  York.” 

“You  can’t  believe  everything  the  papers  say,”  I 
protest. 

“Hm,  this  time  the  papers,  hm,  hm,  may  be  right,” 
the  Deputy  interposes.  “They  surely  didn’t  make  the 
story,  hm,  hm,  out  of  whole  cloth.” 

“They  often  do,”  I  retort.  “Didn’t  they  write  that 
I  tried  to  jump  over  the  wall — it’s  about  thirty  feet 
high — and  that  the  guard  shot  me  in  the  leg?” 

A  smile  flits  across  the  Warden’s  face.  Impulsively 
I  blurt  out: 

“Was  the  story  inspired,  perhaps?” 

“Silence!”  the  Warden  thunders.  “You  are  not  to 
speak,  unless  addressed,  remember.  Mr.  McPane,  please 
search  him.” 

The  long,  bony  fingers  slowly  creep  over  my  neck 
and  shoulders,  down  my  arms  and  body,  pressing  in  my 
armpits,  gripping  my  legs,  covering  every  spot,  and 
immersing  me  in  an  atmosphere  of  clamminess.  The 
loathsome  touch  sickens  me,  but  I  rejoice  in  the  thought 
of  my  security :  I  have  nothing  incriminating  about  me. 


THE  WARDEN’S  THREAT 


21 1 


Suddenly  the  snakelike  hand  dips  into  my  coat  pocket. 

“Hm,  what’s  this  ?”  He  unwraps  a  small,  round 
object.  “A  knife,  Captain.” 

“Let  me  see!”  I  cry  in  amazement. 

“Stand  back!”  the  Warden  commands.  “This  knife 
has  been  stolen  from  the  shoe  shop.  On  whom  did  you 
mean  to  use  it?” 

“Warden,  I  didn’t  even  know  I  had  it.  A  fellow 
dropped  it  into  my  pocket  as  we — ” 

“That’ll  do.  You’re  not  so  clever  as  you  think.” 

“It's  a  conspiracy !”  I  cry. 

He  lounges  calmly  in  the  armchair,  a  peculiar  smile 
dancing  in  his  eyes. 

“Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say?” 

“It’s  a  put-up  job.” 

“Explain  yourself.” 

“Some  one  threw  this  thing  into  my  pocket  as  we  were 
coming — ” 

“Oh,  we’ve  already  heard  that.  It’s  too  fishy.” 

“You  searched  me  for  money  and  secret  letters—” 

“That  will  do  now.  Mr.  McPane,  what  is  the  sentence 
for  the  possession  of  a  dangerous  weapon?” 

“Warden,”  I  interrupt,  “it’s  no  weapon.  The  blade 
is  only  half  an  inch,  and — ” 

“Silence!  I  spoke  to  Mr.  McPane.” 

“Hm,  three  days,  Captain.” 

“Take  him  down.” 

In  the  storeroom  I  am  stripped  of  my  suit  of  dark 
gray,  and  again  clad  in  the  hateful  stripes.  Coatless  and 
shoeless,  I  am  led  through  hallways  and  corridors,  down 
a  steep  flight  of  stairs,  and  thrown  into  the  dungeon. 


Total  darkness.  The  blackness  is  massive,  palpable, — 


212  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


I  feel  its  hand  upon  my  head,  my  face.  I  dare  not  move, 
lest  a  misstep  thrust  me  into  the  abyss.  I  hold  my  hand 
close  to  my  eyes — I  feel  the  touch  of  my  lashes  upon 
it,  but  I  cannot  see  its  outline.  Motionless  I  stand  on  one 
spot,  devoid  of  all  sense  of  direction.  The  silence  is 
sinister;  it  seems  to  me  I  can  hear  it.  Only  now  and 
then  the  hasty  scrambling  of  nimble  feet  suddenly  rends 
the  stillness,  and  the  gnawing  of  invisible  river  rats 
haunts  the  fearful 'solitude. 

Slowly  the  blackness  pales.  It  ebbs  and  melts;  out 
of  the  sombre  gray,  a  wall  looms  above;  the  silhouette 
of  a  door  rises  dimly  before  me,  sloping  upward  and 
growing  compact  and  impenetrable. 

The  hours  drag  in  unbroken  sameness.  Not  a  sound 
reaches  me  from  the  cell-house.  In  the  maddening  quiet 
and  darkness  I  am  bereft  of  all  consciousness  of  time, 
save  once  a  day  when  the  heavy  rattle  of  keys  apprises 
me  of  the  morning:  the  dungeon  is  unlocked,  and  the 
silent  guards  hand  me  a  slice  of  bread  and  a  cup  of 
water.  The  double  doors  fall  heavily  to,  the  steps  grow 
fainter  and  die  in  the  distance,  and  all  is  dark  again  in 
the  dungeon. 

The  numbness  of  death  steals  upon  my  soul.  The 
floor  is  cold  and  clammy,  the  gnawing  grows  louder  and 
nearer,  and  I  am  filled  with  dread  lest  the  starving  rats 
attack  my  bare  feet.  I  snatch  a  few  unconscious  mo¬ 
ments  leaning  against  the  door;  and  then  again  I  pace 
the  cell,  striving  to  keep  awake,  wondering  whether  it  be 
night  or  day,  yearning  for  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 

Utterly  forsaken !  Cast  into  the  stony  bowels  of  the 
underground,  the  world  of  man  receding,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  .  .  .  Eagerly  I  strain  my  ear — only  the 
ceaseless,  fearful  gnawing.  I  clutch  the  bars  in  despera- 


THE  WARDEN’S  THREAT  213 

tion — a  hollow  echo  mocks  the  clanking  iron.  My  hands 
tear  violently  at  the  door — “Ho,  there!  Any  one  here?” 
All  is  silent.  Nameless  terrors  quiver  in  my  mind,  weav¬ 
ing  nightmares  of  mortal  dread  and  despair.  Fear  shapes 
convulsive  thoughts:  they  rage  in  wild  tempest,  then 
calm,  and  again  rush  through  time  and  space  in  a  rapid 
succession  of  strangely  familiar  scenes,  wakened  in  my 
slumbering  consciousness. 

Exhausted  and  weary  I  droop  against  the  wall.  A 
slimy  creeping  on  my  face  startles  me  in  horror,  and 
again  I  pace  the  cell.  I  feel  cold  and  hungry.  Am  I 
forgotten?  Three  days  must  have  passed,  and  more. 

Have  they  forgotten  me?  .  .  . 

> 

The  clank  of  keys  sends  a  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart. 
My  tomb  will  open — oh,  to  see  the  light,  and  breathe  the 
air  again.  ... 

“Officer,  isn’t  my  time  up  yet?” 

“What’s  your  hurry?  You’ve  only  been  here  one 
day.” 

The  doors  fall  to.  Ravenously  I  devour  the  bread, 
so  small  and  thin,  just  a  bite.  Only  one  day!  Despair 
enfolds  me  like  a  pall.  Faint  with  anguish,  I  sink  to  the 
floor. 

II 

The  change  from  the  dungeon  to  the  ordinary  cell 
is  a  veritable  transformation.  The  sight  of  the  human 
form  fills  me  with  delight,  the  sound  of  voices  is  sweet 
music.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  torn  from  the  grip  of 
death  when  all  hope  had  fled  me, — caught  on  the  very 
brink,  as  it  were,  and  restored  to  the  world  of  the  living. 
How  bright  the  sun,  how  balmy  the  air!  In  keen 
sensuousness  I  stretch  out  on  the  bed.  The  tick  is  soiled, 
the  straw  protrudes  in  places,  but  it  is  luxury  to  rest, 


214  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


secure  from  the  vicious  river  rats  and  the  fierce  vermin. 
It  is  almost  liberty,  freedom! 

But  in  the  morning  I  awake  in  great  agony.  My  eyes 
throb  with  pain;  every  joint  of  my  body  is  on  the  rack. 
The  blankets  had  been  removed  from  the  dungeon ;  three 
days  and  nights  I  lay  on  the  bare  stone.  It  was  unneces¬ 
sarily  cruel  to  deprive  me  of  my  spectacles,  in  pretended 
anxiety  lest  I  commit  suicide  with  them.  It  is  very 
touching,  this  solicitude  for  my  safety,  in  view  of  the 
flimsy  pretext  to  punish  me.  Some  hidden  motive  must 
be  actuating  the  Warden.  But  what  can  it  be?  Prob¬ 
ably  they  will  not  keep  me  long  in  the  cell.  When  I 
am  returned  to  work,  I  shall  learn  the  truth. 

The  days  pass  in  vain  expectation.  The  continuous 
confinement  is  becoming  distressing.  I  miss  the  little 
comforts  I  have  lost  by  the  removal  to  the  “single”  cell, 
considerably  smaller  than  my  previous  quarters.  My 
library,  also,  has  disappeared,  and  the  pictures  I  had  so 
patiently  collected  for  the  decoration  of  the  walls.  The 
cell  is  bare  and  cheerless,  the  large  card  of  ugly-printed 
rules  affording  no  relief  from  the  irritating  whitewash. 
The  narrow  space  makes  exercise  difficult:  the  necessity 
of  turning  at  every  second  and  third  step  transforms 
walking  into  a  series  of  contortions.  But  some  means 
must  be  devised  to  while  away  the  time.  I  pace  the 
floor,  counting  the  seconds  required  to  make  ten  turns. 
I  recollect  having  heard  that  five  miles  constitutes  a 
healthy  day’s  walk.  At  that  rate  I  should  make  3,771 
turns,  the  cell  measuring  seven  feet  in  length.  I  divide 
the  exercise  into  three  parts,  adding  a  few  extra  laps  to 
make  sure  of  five  miles.  Carefully  I  count,  and  am 
overcome  by  a  sense  of  calamity  when  the  peal  of  the 
gong  confuses  my  numbers.  I  must  begin  over  again. 

The  change  of  location  has  interrupted  communica- 


THE  WARDEN’S  THREAT 


215 


tion  with  my  comrades.  I  am  apprehensive  of  the  fate 
of  the  Prison  Blossoms:  strict  surveillance  makes  the 
prospect  of  restoring  connections  doubtful:  I  am 
assigned  to  the  ground  floor,  my  cell  being  but  a  few  feet 
distant  from  the  officers’  desk  at  the  yard  door.  Watch¬ 
ful  eyes  are  constantly  upon  me;  it  is  impossible  for 
any  prisoner  to  converse  with  me.  The  rangeman  alone 
could  aid  me  in  reaching  my  friends,  but  I  have  been 
warned  against  him :  he  is  a  “stool”  who  has  earned  his 
position  as  trusty  by  spying  upon  the  inmates.  I  can 
expect  no  help  from  him;  but  perhaps  the  coffee-boy 
may  prove  of  service. 

I  am  planning  to  approach  the  man,  when  I  am 
informed  that  prisoners  from  the  hosiery  department 
are  locked  up  on  the  upper  gallery.  By  means  of  the 
waste  pipe,  I  learn  of  the  developments  during  my  stay 
in  the  dungeon.  The  discontent  of  the  shop  employees 
with  the  insufficient  rations  was  intensified  by  the  arrival 
of  a  wagon-load  of  bad  meat.  The  stench  permeated  the 
yard,  and  several  men  were  punished  for  passing  uncom¬ 
plimentary  remarks  about  the  food.  The  situation  was 
aggravated  by  an  additional  increase  of  the  task.  The 
knitters  and  loopers  were  on  the  verge  of  rebellion. 
Twice  within  the  month  had  the  task  been  enlarged.  They 
sent  to  the  Warden  a  request  for  a  reduction;  in  reply 
came  the  appalling  order  for  a  further  increase.  Then 
a  score  of  men  struck.  They  remained  in  the  cells, 
refusing  to  return  to  the  shop  unless  the  demand  for 
better  food  and  less  work  was  complied  with.  With  the 
aid  of  informers,  the  Warden  conducted  a  quiet  investi¬ 
gation.  One  by  one  the  refractory  prisoners  were  forced 
to  submit.  By  a  process  of  elimination  the  authorities 
sifted  the  situation,  and  now  it  is  whispered  about  that 
a  decision  has  been  reached,  placing  responsibility  for 
the  unique  episode  of  a  strike  in  the  prison. 


216  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


An  air  of  mystery  hangs  about  the  guards. 
Repeatedly  I  attempt  to  engage  them  in  conversation, 
but  the  least  reference  to  the  strike  seals  their  lips.  I 
wonder  at  the  peculiar  looks  they  regard  me  with,  when 
unexpectedly  the  cause  is  revealed. 

*  III 

It  is  Sunday  noon.  The  rangeman  pushes  the  dinner 
wagon  along  the  tier.  I  stand  at  the  door,  ready  to 
receive  the  meal.  The  overseer  glances  at  me,  then 
motions  to  the  prisoner.  The  cart  rolls  past  my  cell. 

“Officer,”  I  call  out,  “you  missed  me.” 

“Smell  the  pot-pie,  do  you?” 

“Where’s  my  dinner  ?” 

“You  get  none.” 

The  odor  of  the  steaming  delicacy,  so  keenly  looked 
forward  to  every  second  Sunday,  reaches  my  nostrils 
and  sharpens  my  hunger.  I  have  eaten  sparingly  all 
week  in  expectation  of  the  treat,  and  now —  I  am 
humiliated  and  enraged  by  being  so  unceremoniously 
deprived  of  the  rare  dinner.  Angrily  I  rap  the  cup 
across  the  door;  again  and  again  I  strike  the  tin  against 
it,  the  successive  falls  from  bar  to  bar  producing  a 
sharp,  piercing  clatter. 

A  guard  hastens  along.  “Stop  that  damn  racket,” 
he  commands.  “What’s  the  matter  with  you  ?” 

“I  didn’t  get  dinner.” 

“Yes,  you  did.” 

“I  did  not.” 

“Well,  I  s’pose  you  don’t  deserve  it.” 

As  he  turns  to  leave,  my  can  crashes  against  the 
door — one,  two,  three — 

“What  t’hell  do  you  want,  eh?” 

“I  want  to  see  the  Warden.” 


THE  WARDEN’S  THREAT 


217 


“You  can’t  see  ’im.  You  better  keep  quiet  now.” 

“I  demand  to  see  the  Warden.  He  is  supposed  to 
visit  us  every  day.  He  hasn’t  been  around  for  weeks. 
I  must  see  him  now.” 

“If  you  don’t  shut  up,  I’ll — 

The  Captain  of  the  Block  approaches. 

“What  do  you  want,  Berkman?” 

“I  want  to  see  the  Warden.” 

“Can’t  see  him.  It’s  Sunday.” 

“Captain,”  I  retort,  pointing  to  the  rules  on  the  wall 
of  the  cell,  “there  is  an  excerpt  here  from  the  statutes 
of  Pennsylvania,  directing  the  Warden  to  visit  each 
prisoner  every  day — ” 

“Never  mind,  now,”  he  interrupts.  “What  do  you 
want  to  see  the  Warden  about?” 

“I  want  to  know  why  I  got  no  dinner.” 

“Your  name  is  off  the  list  for  the  next  four  Sundays.” 

“What  for?” 

“That  you’ll  have  to  ask  the  boss.  I’ll  tell  him  you 
want  to  see  him.” 

Presently  the  overseer  returns,  informing  me  in  a 
confidential  manner  that  he  has  induced  “his  Nibs”  to 
grant  me  an  audience.  Admitted  to  the  inner  office,  I 
find  the  Warden  at  the  desk,  his  face  flushed  with  anger. 

“You  are  reported  for  disturbing  the  peace,”  he 
shouts  at  me. 

“There  is  also,  hm,  hm,  another  charge  against  him,” 
the  Deputy  interposes. 

“Two  charges,”  the  Warden  continues.  “Disturb¬ 
ing  the  peace  and  making  demands.  How  dare  you 
demand  ?”  he  roars.  “Do  you  know  where  you  are  ?” 

“I  wanted  to  see  you.” 

“It  is  not  a  question  of  what  you  want  or  don’t  want. 
Understand  that  clearly.  You  are  to  obey  the  rules 
implicitly.” 


2lS  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“The  rules  direct  you  to  visit — ” 

“Silence!  What  is  your  request ?” 

“I  want  to  know  why  I  am  deprived  of  dinner.” 

“It  is  not,  hm,  for  you  to  know.  It  is  enough,  hm, 
hm,  that  we  know,”  the  Deputy  retorts. 

“Mr.  McPane,”  the  Warden  interposes,  “I  am  going 
to  speak  plainly  to  him.  From  this  day  on,”  he  turns 
to  me,  “you  are  on  ‘Pennsylvania  diet’  for  four  weeks. 
During  that  time  no  papers  or  books  are  permitted  you. 
It  will  give  you  leisure  to  think  over  your  behavior. 
I  have  investigated  your  conduct  in  the  shop,  and  I  am 
satisfied  it  was  you  who  instigated  the  trouble  there. 
You  shall  not  have  another  chance  to  incite  the  men, 
even  if  you  live  as  long  as  your  sentence.  But,”  he 
pauses  an  instant,  then  adds,  threateningly,  “but  you 
may  as  well  understand  it  now  as  later — your  life  is  not 
worth  the  trouble  you  give  us.  Mark  you  well,  whatever 
the  cost,  it  will  be  at  your  expense.  For  the  present 
you’ll  remain  in  solitary,  where  you  cannot  exert  your 
pernicious  influence.  Officers,  remove  him  to  the 
‘basket.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  “BASKET”  CELL 

Four  weeks  of  “Pennsylvania  diet”  have  reduced  me 
almost  to  a  skeleton.  A  slice  of  wheat  bread  with  a 
cup  of  unsweetened  black  coffee  is  my  sole  meal,  with 
twice  a  week  dinner  of  vegetable  soup,  from  which  every 
trace  of  meat  has  been  removed.  Every  Saturday  I 
am  conducted  to  the  office,  to  be  examined  by  the 
physician  and  weighed.  The  whole  week  I  look  forward 
to  the  brief  respite  from  the  terrible  “basket”  cell.  The 
sight  of  the  striped  men  scouring  the  floor,  the  friendly 
smile  on  a  stealthily  raised  face  as  I  pass  through  the 
hall,  the  strange  blue  of  the  sky,  the  sweet-scented  aroma 
of  the  April  morning — how  quickly  it  is  all  over !  But 
the  seven  deep  breaths  I  slowly  inhale  on  the  way  to  the 
office,  and  the  eager  ten  on  my  return,  set  my  blood 
aglow  with  renewed  life.  For  an  instant  my  brain 
reels  with  the  sudden  rush  of  exquisite  intoxication, 
and  then — I  am  in  the  tomb  again. 

•  •••••  •• 

The  torture  of  the  “basket”  is  maddening;  the  con¬ 
stant  dusk  is  driving  me  blind.  Almost  no  light  or  air 
reaches  me  through  the  close  wire  netting  covering  the 
barred  door.  The  foul  odor  is  stifling ;  it  grips  my  throat 
with  deathly  hold.  The  walls  hem  me  in ;  daily  they 
press  closer  upon  me,  till  the  cell  seems  to  contract,  and 
I  feel  crushed  in  the  coffin  of  stone.  From  every  point 
the  whitewashed  sides  glare  at  me,  unyielding,  inexorable, 
in  confident  assurance  of  their  prey. 

The  darkness  of  despondency  gathers  day  by  day; 
the  hand  of  despair  weighs  heavier.  At  night  the 

219 

v'  M  jL 


220  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


screeching  of  a  crow  across  the  river  ominously  voices 
the  black  raven  keeping  vigil  in  my  heart.  The  windows 
in  the  hallway  quake  and  tremble  in  the  furious  wind. 
Bleak  and  desolate  wakes  the  day — another  day,  then 
another — 

Weak  and  apathetic  I  lie  on  the  bed.  Ever  further 
recedes  the  world  of  the  living.  Still  day  follows  night, 
and  life  is  in  the  making,  but  I  have  no  part  in  the  pain 
and  travail.  Like  a  spark  from  the  glowing  furnace, 
flashing  through  the  gloom,  and  swallowed  in  the  dark¬ 
ness,  I  have  been  cast  upon  the  shores  of  the  forgotten. 
No  sound  reaches  me  from  the  island  prison  where  beats 
the  fervent  heart  of  the  Girl,  no  ray  of  hope  falls  across 
the  bars  of  desolation.  But  on  the  threshold  of  Nirvana 
life  recoils;  in  the  very  bowels  of  torment  it  cries  out 
to  be!  Persecution  feeds  the  fires  of  defiance,  and 
nerves  my  resolution.  Were  I  an  ordinary  prisoner,  I 
should  not  care  to  suffer  all  these  agonies.  To  what  pur¬ 
pose,  with  my  impossible  sentence?  But  my  Anarchist 
ideals  and  traditions  rise  in  revolt  against  the  vampire 
gloating  over  its  prey.  No,  I  shall  not  disgrace  the 
Cause,  I  shall  not  grieve  my  comrades  by  weak  sur¬ 
render  !  I  will  fight  and  struggle,  and  not  be  daunted 
by  threat  or  torture. 

•  ••••••• 

With  difficulty  I  walk  to  the  office  for  the  weekly 
weighing.  My  step  falters  as  I  approach  the  scales,  and 
I  sway  dizzily.  As  through  a  mist  I  see  the  doctor  bend¬ 
ing  over  me,  his  head  pressing  against  my  body.  Some¬ 
how  I  reach  the  “basket,”  mildly  wondering  why  I  did 
not  feel  the  cold  air.  Perhaps  they  did  not  take  me 
through  the  yard —  Is  it  the  Block  Captain’s  voice? 
“What  did  you  say?” 

“Return  to  your  old  cell.  You’re  on  full  diet  now.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


THE  SOLITARY 

I 


Direct  to  Box  A  7, 
Allegheny  City,  Pa. 

_  March  25,  1894. 

Dear  Fedya: 

This  letter  is  somewhat  delayed :  for  certain  reasons  I  missed 
mail-day  last  month.  Prison  life,  too,  has  its  ups  and  downs, 
and  just  now  I  am  on  the  dow’n  side.  We  are  cautioned  to 
refrain  from  referring  to  local  affairs;  therefore  I  can  tell 
you  only  that  I  am  in  solitary,  without  work.  I  don’t  know  how 
long  I  am  to  be  kept  “locked  up.”  It  may  be  a  month,  or  a  year, 
but  I  hope  it  will  not  be  the  latter. 

I  was  not  permitted  to  receive  the  magazines  and  delicacies 
you  sent.  .  .  .  We  may  subscribe  for  the  daily  papers,  and  you 
can  easily  imagine  how  religiously  I  read  them  from  headline  to 
the  last  ad :  they  keep  me  in  touch,  to  some  extent,  with  the 
living.  .  .  .  Blessed  be  the  shades  of  Guttenberg!  Hugo  and 
Zola,  even  Gogol  and  Turgenev,  are  in  the  library.  It  is  like 
meeting  an  old  friend  in  a  strange  land  to  find  our  own  Bazarov 

discoursing — in  English . Page  after  page  unfolds  the  past — 

the  solitary  is  forgotten,  the  walls  melt  away,  and  again  I  roam 
with  Leather  Stocking  in  the  primitive  forest,  or  sorrow  with 
poor  Oliver  Twist.  But  the  “Captain’s  Daughter”  irritates  me, 
and  Pugatchev,  the  rebellious  soul,  has  turned  a  caricature  in 
the  awkward  hands  of  the  translator.  And  now  comes  Tarass 
Bulba — is  it  our  own  Tarass,  the  fearless  warrior,  the  scourge 
of  Turk  and  Tartar?  How  grotesque  is  the  brave  old  hetman 
storming  maledictions  against  the  hated  Moslems — in  long-winded 
German  periods !  Exasperated  and  offended,  I  turn  my  back 
upon  the  desecration,  and  open  a  book  of  poems.  But  instead  of 

221 


222  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  requested  Robert  Burns,  I  find  a  volume  of  Wordsworth. 
Posies  bloom  on  his  pages,  and  rosebuds  scent  his  rhymes,  but 
the  pains  of  the  world’s  labor  wake  no  chord  in  his  soul.  .  .  . 
Science  and  romance,  history  and  travel,  religion  and  philosophy — 
all  come  trooping  into  the  cell  in  irrelevant  sequence,  for  the 
allowance  of  only  one  book  at  a  time  limits  my  choice.  The 
variety  of  reading  affords  rich  material  for  reflection,  and  helps 
to  perfect  my  English.  But  some  passage  in  the  “Starry  Heavens” 
suddenly  brings  me  to  earth,  and  the  present  is  illumined  with 
the  direct  perception  of  despair,  and  the  anguished  question 
surges  through  my  mind,  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  study  and 
learning?  And  then — but  why  harrow  you  with  this  tenor. 

I  did  not  mean  to  say  all  this  when  I  began.  It  cannot  be 
undone :  the  sheet  must  be  accounted  for.  Therefore  it  will 
be  mailed  to  you.  But  I  know,  dear  friend,  you  also  are  not 
bedded  on  roses.  And  the  poor  Sailor? 

My  space  is  all. 


The  lengthening  chain  of  days  in  the  solitary  drags 
its  heavy  links  through  every  change  of  misery.  The 
cell  is  suffocating  with  the  summer  heat;  rarely  does 
the  fresh  breeze  from  the  river  steal  a  caress  upon  my 
face.  On  the  pretext  of  a  “draught”  the  unfriendly  guard 
has  closed  the  hall  windows  opposite  my  cell.  Not  a 
breath  of  air  is  stirring.  The  leaden  hours  of  the  night 
are  insufferable  with  the  foul  odor  of  the  perspiration 
and  excrement  of  a  thousand  bodies.  Sleepless,  I  toss 
on  the  withered  mattress.  The  ravages  of  time  and  the 
weight  of  many  inmates  have  demoralized  it  out  of  all 
semblance  of  a  bedtick.  But  the  Block  Captain  per¬ 
sistently  ignores  my  request  for  new  straw,  directing  me 
to  “shake  it  up  a  bit.”  I  am  fearful  of  repeating  the 
experiment:  the  clouds  of  dust  almost  strangled  me;  for 
days  the  cell  remained  hazy  with  the  powdered  filth. 
Impatiently  I  await  the  morning :  the  yard  door  will  open 


THE  SOLITARY 


223 


before  the  marching  lines,  and  the  fresh  air  be  wafted 
past  my  cell.  I  shall  stand  ready  to  receive  the  precious 
tonic  that  is  to  give  me  life  this  day. 

And  when  the  block  has  belched  forth  its  striped 
prey,  and  silence  mounts  its  vigil,  I  may  improve  a 
favorable  moment  to  exchange  a  greeting  with  Johnny 
Davis.  The  young  prisoner  is  in  solitary  on  the  tier 
above  me.  Thrice  his  request  for  a  “high  gear”  machine 
has  been  refused,  and  the  tall  youth  forced  to  work 
doubled  over  a  low  table.  Unable  to  exert  his  best 
efforts  in  the  cramped  position,  Johnny  has  repeatedly 
been  punished  with  the  dungeon.  Last  week  he  suffered 
a  hemorrhage;  all  through  the  night  resounds  his  hollow 
cough.  Desperate  with  the  dread  of  consumption, 
Johnny  has  refused  to  return  to  work.  The  Warden, 
relenting  in  a  kindly  mood,  permitted  him  to  resume 
his  original  high  machine.  But  the  boy  has  grown 
obdurate:  he  is  determined  not  to  go  back  to  the  shop 
whose  officer  caused  him  so  much  trouble.  The 
prison  discipline  takes  no  cognizance  of  the  situation. 
Regularly  every  Monday  the  torture  is  repeated:  the 
youth  is  called  before  the  Deputy,  and  assigned  to  the 
hosiery  department;  the  unvarying  refusal  is  followed 
by  the  dungeon,  and  then  Johnny  is  placed  in  the  solitary, 
to  be  cited  again  before  the  Warden  the  ensuing  Monday. 
I  chafe  at  my  helplessness  to  aid  the  boy.  His  course 
is  suicidal,  but  the  least  suggestion  of  yielding  enrages 
him.  ‘Til  die  before  I  give  in,”  he  told  me. 

From  whispered  talks  through  the  waste  pipe  I  learn 
the  sad  story  of  his  young  life.  He  is  nineteen,  with  a 
sentence  of  five  years  before  him.  His  father,  a  brake- 
man,  was  killed  in  a  railroad  collision.  The  suit  for 
damages  was  dragged  through  years  of  litigation,  leaving 
the  widow  destitute.  Since  the  age  of  fourteen  young 
Johnny  had  to  support  the  whole  family.  Lately  he 


224  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


was  employed  as  the  driver  of  a  delivery  wagon, 
associating  with  a  rough  element  that  gradually  drew 
him  into  gambling.  One  day  a  shortage  of  twelve  dol¬ 
lars  was  discovered  in  the  boy’s  accounts:  the  mills  of 
justice  began  to  grind,  and  Johnny  was  speedily  clad 
in  stripes. 

In  vain  I  strive  to  absorb  myself  in  the  library  book. 
The  shoddy  heroes  of  Laura  Jean  wake  no  response  in 
my  heart;  the  superior  beings  of  Corelli,  communing 
with  mysterious  heavenly  circles,  stalk  by,  strange  and 
unhuman.  Here,  in  the  cell  above  me,  cries  and  moans 
the  terrible  tragedy  of  Reality.  What  a  monstrous  thing 
it  is  that  the  whole  power  of  the  commonwealth,  all  the 
machinery  of  government,  is  concentrated  to  crush  this 
unfortunate  atom!  Innocently  guilty,  too,  the  poor  boy 
is.  Ensnared  by  the  gaming  spirit  of  the  time,  the  feeble 
creature  of  vitiating  environment,  his  fate  is  sealed  by 
a  moment  of  weakness.  Yet  his  deviation  from  the  path 
of  established  ethics  is  but  a  faint  reflection  of  the  lives 
of  the  men  that  decreed  his  doom.  The  hypocrisy  of 
organized  Society !  The  very  foundation  of  its  existence 
rests  upon  the  negation  and  defiance  of  every  professed 
principle  of  right  and  justice.  Every  feature  of  its  face 
is  a  caricature,  a  travesty  upon  the  semblance  of  truth; 
the  whole  life  of  humanity  a  mockery  of  the  very  name. 
Political  mastery  based  on  violence  and  jesuitry;  industry 
gathering  the  harvest  of  human  blood ;  commerce  ascend¬ 
ant  on  the  ruins  of  manhod — such  is  the  morality  of 
civilization.  And  over  the  edifice  of  this  stupendous 
perversion  the  Law  sits  enthroned,  and  Religion  weaves 
the  spell  of  awe,  and  varnishes  right  and  puzzles  wrong, 
and  bids  the  cowering  helot  intone,  “Thy  will  be  done !” 

Devoutly  Johnny  goes  to  Church,  and  prays  for¬ 
giveness  for  his  “sins.”  The  prosecutor  was  “very 


THE  SOLITARY 


225 


hard”  on  him,  he  told  me.  The  blind  mole  perceives 
only  the  immediate,  and  is  embittered  against  the  per¬ 
sons  directly  responsible  for  his  long  imprisonment. 
But  greater  minds  have  failed  fully  to  grasp  the 
iniquity  of  the  established.  My  beloved  Burns,  even, 
seems  inadequate,  powerfully  as  he  moves  my  spirit 
with  his  deep  sympathy  for  the  poor,  the  oppressed. 
But  “man’s  inhumanity  to  man”  is  not  the  last  word. 
The  truth  lies  deeper.  It  is  economic  slavery,  the 
savage  struggle  for  a  crumb,  that  has  converted 
mankind  into  wolves  and  sheep.  In  liberty  and  com¬ 
munism,  none  would  have  the  will  or  the  power  “to  make 
countless  thousands  mourn.”  Verily,  it  is  the  system, 
rather  than  individuals,  that  is  the  source  of  pollution 
and  degradation.  My  prison-house  environment  is 
but  another  manifestation  of  the  Midas-hand,  whose 
cursed  touch  turns  everything  to  the  brutal  service  of 
Mammon.  Dullness  fawns  upon  cruelty  for  advance¬ 
ment;  with  savage  joy  the  shop  foreman  cracks  his  whip, 
for  his  meed  of  the  gold-transmuted  blood.  The  fam¬ 
ished  bodies  in  stripes,  the  agonized  brains  reeling 
in  the  dungeon  night,  the  men  buried  in  “basket”  and 
solitary, — what  human  hand  would  turn  the  key  upon 
a  soul  in  utter  darkness,  but  for  the  dread  of  a  like  fate, 
and  the  shadow  it  casts  before?  This  nightmare  is  but 
an  intensified  replica  of  the  world  beyond,  the  larger 
prison  locked  with  the  levers  of  Greed,  guarded  by  the 
spawn  of  Hunger. 

My  mind  reverts  insistently  to  the  life  outside.  It 
is  a  Herculean  task  to  rouse  Apathy  to  the  sordidness 
of  its  misery.  Yet  if  the  People  would  but  realize  the 
depths  of  their  degradation  and  be  informed  of  the 
means  of  deliverance,  how  joyously  they  would  embrace 
Anarchy!  Quick  and  decisive  would  be  the  victory  of 


226  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  workers  against  the  handful  of  their  despoilers.  An 
hour  of  sanity,  freed  from  prejudice  and  superstition, 
and  the  torch  of  liberty  would  flame  ’round  the  world, 
and  the  banner  of  equality  and  brotherhood  be  planted 
upon  the  hills  of  a  regenerated  humanity.  Ah,  if  the 
world  would  but  pause  for  one  short  while,  and  under¬ 
stand,  and  become  free! 

Involuntarily  I  am  reminded  of  the  old  rabbinical 
lore:  only  one  instant  of  righteousness,  and  Messiah 
would  come  upon  earth.  The  beautiful  promise  had 
strongly  appealed  to  me  in  the  days  of  childhood.  The 
merciful  God  requires  so  little  of  us,  I  had  often 
pondered.  Why  will  we  not  abstain  from  sin  and  evil, 
for  just  “the  twinkling  of  an  eye-lash”?  For  weeks  I 
went  about  weighed  down  with  the  grief  of  impenitent 
Israel  refusing  to  be  saved,  my  eager  brain  pregnant 
with  projects  of  hastening  the  deliverance.  Like  a 
divine  inspiration  came  the  solution :  at  the  stroke  of  the 
noon  hour,  on  a  preconcerted  day,  all  the  men  and 
women  of  the  Jewry  throughout  the  world  should  bow 
in  prayer.  For  a  single  stroke  of  time,  all  at  once — behold 
the  Messiah  come !  In  agonizing  perplexity  I  gazed  at 
my  Hebrew  tutor  shaking  his  head.  How  his  kindly 
smile  quivered  dismay  into  my  thrilling  heart!  The 
children  of  Israel  could  not  be  saved  thus, — he  spoke 
sadly.  Nay,  not  even  in  the  most  circumspect  manner, 
affording  our  people  in  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth 
time  to  prepare  for  the  solemn  moment.  The  Messiah 
will  come,  the  good  tutor  kindly  consoled  me.  It  had 
been  promised.  “But  the  hour  hath  not  arrived,”  he 
quoted;  “no  man  hath  the  power  to  hasten  the  steps  of 
the  Deliverer.” 

With  a  sense  of  sobering  sadness,  I  think  of  the  new 
hope,  the  revolutionary  Messiah.  Truly  the  old  rabbi 
was  wise  beyond  his  ken :  it  hath  been  given  to  no  man  to 


THE  SOLITARY 


227 


hasten  the  march  of  delivery.  Out  of  the  People’s  need, 
from  the  womb  of  their  suffering,  must  be  born  the  hour 
of  redemption.  Necessity,  Necessity  alone,  with  its  iron 
heel,  will  spur  numb  Misery  to  effort,  and  waken  the 
living  dead.  The  process  is  tortuously  slow,  but  the 
gestation  of  a  new  humanity  cannot  be  hurried  by  impa¬ 
tience.  We  must  bide  our  time,  meanwhile  preparing  the 
workers  for  the  great  upheaval.  The  errors  of  the  past 
are  to  be  guarded  against:  always  has  apparent  victory 
been  divested  of  its  fruits,  and  paralyzed  into  defeat, 
because  the  People  were  fettered  by  their  respect  for 
property,  by  the  superstitious  awe  of  authority,  and  by 
reliance  upon  leaders.  These  ghosts  must  be  cast  out, 
and  the  torch  of  reason  lighted  in  the  darkness  of  men’s 
minds,  ere  blind  rebellion  can  rend  the  midway  clouds 
of  defeat,  and  sight  the  glory  of  the  Social  Revolution, 
and  the  beyond. 


Ill 

A  heavy  nightmare  oppresses  my  sleep.  Confused 
sounds  ring  in  my  ears,  and  beat  upon  my  head.  I  wake 
in  nameless  dread.  The  cell-house  is  raging  with  uproar : 
crash  after  crash  booms  through  the  hall;  it  thunders 
against  the  walls  of  the  cell,  then  rolls  like  some 
monstrous  drum  along  the  galleries,  and  abruptly  ceases. 

In  terror  I  cower  on  the  bed.  All  is  deathly  still. 
Timidly  I  look  around.  The  cell  is  in,  darkness,  and  only 
a  faint  gas  light  flickers  unsteadily  in  the  corridor. 
Suddenly  a  cry  cuts  the  silence,  shrill  and  unearthly, 
bursting  into  wild  laughter.  And  again  the  fearful 
thunder,  now  bellowing  from  the  cell  above,  now  mutter¬ 
ing  menacingly  in  the  distance,  then  dying  with  a  growl. 
And  all  is  hushed  again,  and  only  the  unearthly  laughter 
rings  through  the  hall. 


228  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Johnny,  Johnny!”  I  call  in  alarm.  “Johnny!” 

“Th’  kid’s  in  th’  hole,”  comes  hoarsely  through  the 
privy.  “This  is  Horsethief.  Is  that  you,  Aleck?” 

“Yes.  What  is  it,  Bob  ?” 

“Some  one  breakin’  up  housekeepin’.” 

“Who  ?” 

“Can’t  tell.  May  be  Smithy.” 

“What  Smithy,  Bob?” 

“Crazy  Smith,  on  crank  row.  Look  out  now,  they’re 
cornin’.” 

The  heavy  doors  of  the  rotunda  groan  on  their  hinges. 
Shadowlike,  giant  figures  glide  past  my  cell.  They  walk 
inaudibly,  felt-soled  and  portentous,  the  long  riot  clubs 
rigid  at  their  sides.  Behind  them  others,  and  then  the 
Warden,  a  large  revolver  gleaming  in  his  hand.  With 
bated  breath  I  listen,  conscious  of  the  presence  of  other 
men  at  the  doors.  Suddenly  wailing  and  wild  laughter 
pierce  the  night:  there  is  the  rattling  of  iron,  violent 
"scuffling,  the  sickening  thud  of  a  falling  body,  and  all 
is  quiet.  Noiselessly  the  bread  cart  flits  by,  the  huge 

shadows  bending  over  the  body  stretched  on  the  boards. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The  gong  booms  the  rising  hour.  The  morning  sun 
glints  a  ray  upon  the  bloody  trail  in  the  hall,  and  hides 
behind  the  gathering  mist.  A  squad  of  men  in  gray  and 
black  is  marched  from  the  yard.  They  kneel  on  the 
floor,  and  with  sand  and  water  scour  the  crimson  flag¬ 
stones. 

With  great  relief  I  learn  that  “Crazy  Smithy”  is  not 
dead.  He  will  recover,  the  rangeman  assures  me.  The 
doctor  bandaged  the  man’s  wounds,  and  then  the  prisoner, 
still  unconscious,  was  dragged  to  the  dungeon.  Little 
by  little  I  glean  his  story  from  my  informant.  Smith 
has  been  insane,  at  times  violently,  ever  since  his  impris- 


THE  SOLITARY 


229 


onment,  about  four  years  ago.  His  “partner,”  Burns,  has 
also  become  deranged  through  worry  over  his  sentence  of 
twenty-five  years.  His  madness  assumed  such  revolting 
expression  that  the  authorities  caused  his  commitment 
to  the  insane  asylum.  But  Smith  remains  on  “crank 
row,”  the  Warden  insisting  that  he  is  shamming  to  gain 
an  opportunity  to  escape. 


IV 

The  rare  snatches  of  conversation  with  the  old  range- 
man  are  events  in  the  monotony  of  the  solitary.  Owing 
to  the  illness  of  Bob,  communication  with  my  friends  is 
almost  entirely  suspended.  In  the  forced  idleness  the 
hours  grow  heavy  and  languid,  the  days  drag  in  unvary¬ 
ing  sameness.  By  violent  efforts  of  will  I  strangle  the 
recurring  thought  of  my  long  sentence,  and  seek  for¬ 
getfulness  in  reading.  Volume  after  volume  passes 
through  my  hands,  till  my  brain  is  steeped  with  the 
printed  word.  Page  by  page  I  recite  the  history  of  the 
Holy  Church,  the  lives  of  the  Fathers  and  the  Saints,  or 
read  aloud,  to  hear  a  human  voice,  the  mythology  of 
Greece  and  India,  mingling  with  it,  for  the  sake  of 
variety,  a  few  chapters  from  Mill  and  Spencer.  But 
in  the  midst  of  an  intricate  passage  in  the  “Unknowable,” 
or  in  the  heart  of  a  difficult  mathematical  problem,  I 
suddenly  become  aware  of  my  pencil  drawing  familiar 
figures  on  the  library  slate:  22  X  12  =  264.  What  is 
this,  I  wonder.  And  immediately  I  proceed,  in  semi¬ 
conscious  manner,  to  finish  the  calculation: 

264  X  30  =  7,920  ‘days. 

7,920  X  24  =  190,080  hours. 

190,080X60=11,404,800  minutes. 

11,404,800  X  60  =  684,288,000  seconds. 

But  the  next  moment  I  am  aghast  at  the  realization 


230  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

that  my  computation  allows  only  30  days  per  month, 
whereas  the  year  consists  of  365,  sometimes  even  of 
366  days.  And  again  I  repeat  the  process,  multiplying 
22  by  365,  and  am  startled  to  find  that  I  have  almost 
700,000,000  seconds  to  pass  in  the  solitary.  From  the 
official  calendar  alongside  of  the  rules  the  cheering 
promise  faces  me,  Good  conduct  shortens  time.  But  I 
have  been  repeatedly  reported  and  punished — they  will 
surely  deprive  me  of  the  commutation.  With  great  care 

1  figure  out  my  allowance :  one  month  on  the  first  year, 
one  on  the  second ;  two  on  the  third  and  fourth ;  three  on 
the  fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  eighth,  and  ninth;  four  months’ 
“good  time”  on  each  succeeding  year.  I  shall  therefore 
have  to  serve  fifteen  years  and  three  months  in  this  place, 
and  then  eleven  months  in  the  workhouse.  I  have  been 
here  now  two  years.  It  still  leaves  me  14  years  and 

2  months,  or  more  than  5,170  days.  Appalled  by 
the  figures,  I  pace  the  cell  in  agitation.  It  is  hopeless! 
It  is  folly  to  expect  to  survive  such  a  sentence,  especially 
in  view  of  the  Warden’s  persecution,  and  the  petty 
tyranny  of  the  keepers. 

Thoughts  of  suicide  and  escape,  wild  fancies  of 
unforeseen  developments  in  the  world  at  large  that  will 
somehow  result  in  my  liberation,  all  struggle  in  con¬ 
fusion,  leaving  me  faint  and  miserable.  My  absolute 
isolation  holds  no  promise  of  deliverance;  the  days  of 
illness  and  suffering  fill  me  with  anguish.  With  a  sharp 
pang  I  observe  the  thinning  of  my  hair.  The  evidence 
of  physical  decay  rouses  the  fear  of  mental  collapse, 
insanity.  ...  I  shudder  at  the  terrible  suggestion,  and 
lash  myself  into  a  fever  of  irritation  with  myself,  the 
rangeman,  and  every  passing  convict,  my  heart  seething 
with  hatred  of  the  Warden,  the  guards,  the  judge,  and 
that  unembodied,  shapeless,  but  inexorable  and  merciless, 
thing — the  world.  In  the  moments  of  reacting  calm  I 


THE  SOLITARY 


231 


apply  myself  to  philosophy  and  science,  determinedly, 
with  the  desperation  born  of  horror.  But  the  dread  ghost 
is  ever  before  me;  it  follows  me  up  and  down  the  cell, 
mocks  me  with  the  wild  laughter  of  “Crazy  Smith”  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  with  the  moaning  and 
wailing  of  my  neighbor  suddenly  gone  mad. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


MEMORY-GUESTS 

Often  the  Chaplain  pauses  at  my  door,  and  speaks 
words  of  encouragement.  I  feel  deeply  moved  by  his 
sympathy,  but  my  revolutionary  traditions  forbid  the 
expression  of  my  emotions:  a  cog  in  the  machinery  of 
oppression,  he  might  mistake  my  gratitude  for  the 
obsequiousness  of  the  fawning  convict.  But  I  hope  he 
feels  my  appreciation  in  the  simple  “thank  you.”  It  is 
kind  of  him  to  lend  me  books  from  his  private  library, 
and  occasionally  also  permit  me  an  extra  sheet  of  writing 
paper.  Correspondence  with  the  Girl  and  the  Twin, 
and  the  unfrequent  exchange  of  notes  with  my  com¬ 
rades,  are  the  only  links  that  still  bind  me  to  the  liv¬ 
ing.  I  feel  weary  and  life-worn,  indifferent  to  the  trivial 
incidents  of  existence  that  seem  to  hold  such  exciting 
interest  for  the  other  inmates.  “Old  Sammy,”  the  range- 
man,  grown  nervous  with  the  approach  of  liberty,  invents 
a  hundred  opportunities  to  unburden  his  heart.  All  day 
long  he  limps  from  cell  to  cell,  pretending  to  scrub  the 
doorsills  or  dust  the  bars,  meanwhile  chattering  volubly 
to  the  solitaries.  Listlessly  I  suffer  the  oft-repeated 
recital  of  the  “news,”  elaborately  discussed  and  com¬ 
mented  upon  with  impassioned  earnestness.  He  inter¬ 
rupts  his  anathemas  upon  the  “rotten  food”  and  the 
“thieving  murderers,”  to  launch  into  enthusiastic  details 
of  the  meal  he  will  enjoy  on  the  day  of  release,  the 
imprisoned  friends  he  will  remember  with  towels  and 

232 


MEMORY-GUESTS 


233 


handkerchiefs.  But  he  grows  pensive  at  the  mention  of 
the  folks  at  home:  the  “old  woman”  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  the  boys  have  not  written  a  line  in  three  years. 
He  fears  they  have  sold  the  little  farmhouse,  and  flown 
to  the  city.  But  the  joy  of  coming  freedom  drives  away 
the  sad  thought,  and  he  mumbles  hopefully,  “I’ll  see, 
I’ll  see,”  and  rejoices  in  being  “alive  and  still  good  for 
a  while,”  and  then  abruptly  changes  the  conversation,  and 
relates  minutely  how  “that  poor,  crazy  Dick”  was  yester¬ 
day  found  hanging  in  the  cell,  and  he  the  first  to  discover 
him,  and  to  help  the  guards  cut  him  down.  And  last 
week  he  was  present  when  the  physician  tried  to  revive 
“the  little  dago,”  and  if  the  doctor  had  only  returned 
quicker  from  the  theatre,  poor  Joe  might  have  been 
saved.  He  “took  a  fit”  and  “the  screws  jest  let  ’im  lay; 
‘waitin’  for  the  doc,’  they  says.  Hope  they  don’t  kill  me 
yet,”  he  comments,  hobbling  away. 

The  presence  of  death  daunts  the  thought  of  self- 
destruction.  Ever  stronger  asserts  itself  the  love  of  life ; 
the  will  to  be  roots  deeper.  But  the  hope  of  escape 
recedes  with  the  ebbing  of  my  vitality.  The  constant 
harassing  has  forced  the  discontinuation  of  the  Blossoms. 
The  eccentric  Warden  seems  to  have  conceived  a  great 
fear  of  an  Anarchist  conspiracy:  special  orders  have 
been  issued,  placing  the  trio  under  extraordinary 
surveillance.  Suspecting  our  clandestine  correspondence, 
yet  unable  to  trace  it,  the  authorities  have  decided  to 
separate  us  in  a  manner  excluding  all  possibility  of  com¬ 
munication.  Apparently  I  am  to  be  continued  in  the 
solitary  indefinitely,  while  Nold  is  located  in  the  South 
Wing,  and  Bauer  removed  to  the  furthest  cell  on  an 
upper  gallery  in  the  North  Block.  The  precious  maga¬ 
zine  is  suspended,  and  only  the  daring  of  the  faithful 
“Horsethief”  enables  us  to  exchange  an  occasional  note. 


234  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Amid  the  fantastic  shapes  cast  by  the  dim  candle 
light,  I  pass  the  long  winter  evenings.  The  prison  day 
between  7  A.  m.  and  9  p.  m.  I  divide  into  three  parts, 
devoting  four  hours  each  to  exercise,  English,  and 
reading,  the  remaining  two  hours  occupied  with  meals 
and  “cleaning  up.”  Surrounded  by  grammars  and  dic¬ 
tionaries,  borrowed  from  the  Chaplain,  I  absorb  myself 
in  a  sentence  of  Shakespeare,  dissecting  each  word, 
studying  origin  and  derivation,  analyzing  prefix  and 
suffix.  I  find  moments  of  exquisite  pleasure  in  tracing 
some  simple  expression  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  its 
existence,  to  its  Latin  or  Greek  source.  In  the  history 
of  the  corresponding  epoch,  I  seek  the  people’s  joys  and 
tragedies,  contemporary  with  the  fortunes  of  the  word. 
Philology,  with  the  background  of  history,  leads  me  into 
the  pastures  of  mythology  and  comparative  religion, 
through  the  mazes  of  metaphysics  and  warring  philos¬ 
ophies,  to  rationalism  and  evolutionary  science. 

Oblivious  of  my  environment,  I  walk  with  the  dis¬ 
ciples  of  Socrates,  flee  Athens  with  the  persecuted 
Diagoras,  “the  Atheist,”  and  listen  in  ecstasy  to  the 
sweet-voiced  lute  of  Arion;  or  with  Suetonius  I  pass  in 
review  the  Twelve  Caesars,  and  weep  with  the  hostages 
swelling  the  triumph  of  the  Eternal  City.  But  on  the 
very  threshold  of  Cleopatra’s  boudoir,  about  to  enter 
with  the  intrepid  Mark  Antony,  I  am  met  by  three  giant 
slaves  with  the  command: 

“A  7,  hands  up !  Step  out  to  be  searched !” 

For  days  my  enfeebled  nerves  quiver  with  the  shock. 
With  difficulty  I  force  myself  to  pick  up  the  thread  of 
my  life  amid  the  spirits  of  the  past.  The  placid  waters 
have  been  disturbed,  and  all  the  miasma  of  the  quagmire 
seethes  toward  the  surface,  and  fills  my  cup  with  the  bit¬ 
terness  of  death. 


MEMORY-GUESTS 


235 


The  release  of  “Old  Sammy”  stirs  me  to  the  very 
depths.  Many  prisoners  have  come  and  gone  during 
my  stay;  with  some  I  merely  touched  hands  as  they 
passed  in  the  darkness  and  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace 
in  my  existence.  But  the  old  rangeman,  with  his  smiling 
eyes  and  fervid  optimism,  has  grown  dear  to  me.  He 
shared  with  me  his  hopes  and  fears,  divided  his  extra 
slice  of  cornbread,  and  strove  to  cheer  me  in  his  own 
homely  manner.  I  miss  his  genial  presence.  Some¬ 
thing  has  gone  out  of  my  life  with  him,  leaving  a  void, 
saddening,  gnawing.  In  thought  I  follow  my  friend 
through  the  gates  of  the  prison,  out  into  the  free,  the 
alluring  “outside,”  the  charmed  circle  that  holds  the 
promise  of  life  and  joy  and  liberty.  Like  a  horrible 
nightmare  the  sombre  walls  fade  away,  and  only  a  dark 
shadow  vibrates  in  my  memory,  like  a  hidden  menace, 
faint,  yet  ever-present  and  terrible.  The  sun  glows 
brilliant  in  the  heavens,  shell-like  wavelets  float  upon 
the  azure,  and  sweet  odors  are  everywhere  about  me. 
All  the  longing  of  my  soul  wells  up  with  violent  pas¬ 
sion,  and  in  a  sudden  transport  of  joy  I  fling  myself 
upon  the  earth,  and  weep  and  kiss  it  in  prayerful 
bliss . 

The  candle  sputters,  hisses,  and  dies.  I  sit  in  the 
dark.  Silently  lifts  the  veil  of  time.  The  little  New 
York  flat  rises  before  me.  The  Girl  is  returning  home, 
the  roses  of  youth  grown  pallid  amid  the  shadows  of 
death.  Only  her  eyes  glow  firmer  and  deeper,  a  look 
of  challenge  in  her  saddened  face.  As  on  an  open  page, 
I  read  the  suffering  of  her  prison  experience,  the 
sharper  lines  of  steadfast  purpose.  .  .  .  The  joys  and 
sorrows  of  our  mutual  past  unfold  before  me,  and  again 
I  live  in  the  old  surroundings.  The  memorable  scene 
of  our  first  meeting,  in  the  little  cafe  at  Sachs’,  projects 


236  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


clearly.  The  room  is  chilly  in  the  November  dusk,  as 
I  return  from  work  and  secure  my  accustomed  place. 
One  by  one  the  old  habitues  drop  in,  and  presently  I  am 
in  a  heated  discussion  with  two  Russian  refugees  at  the 
table  opposite.  The  door  opens,  and  a  young  woman 
enters.  Well-knit,  with  the  ruddy  vigor  of  youth,  she 
diffuses  an  atmosphere  of  strength  and  vitality.  I 
wonder  who  the  newcomer  may  be.  Two  years  in  the 
movement  have  familiarized  me  with  the  personnel  of 
the  revolutionary  circles  of  the  metropolis.  This  girl 
is  evidently  a  stranger;  I  am  quite  sure  I  have  never 
met  her  at  our  gatherings.  I  motion  to  the  passing 
proprietor.  He  smiles,  anticipating  my  question.  “You 
want  to  know  who  the  young  lady  is?”  he  whispers; 
‘Til  see,  I’ll  see.” — Somehow  I  find  myself  at  her  table. 
Without  constraint,  we  soon  converse  like  old  acquaint¬ 
ances,  and  I  learn  that  she  left  her  home  in  Rochester 
to  escape  the  stifling  provincial  atmosphere.  She  is 
a  dressmaker,  and  hopes  to  find  work  in  New  York. 
I  like  her  simple,  frank  confidence;  the  “comrade”  on  her 
lips  thrills  me.  She  is  one  of  us,  then.  With  a  sense 
of  pride  in  the  movement,  I  enlarge  upon  the  activities 
of  our  circle.  There  are  important  meetings  she  ought 
to  attend,  many  people  to  meet;  Hasselmann  is  conduct¬ 
ing  a  course  in  sociology;  Schultze  is  giving  splendid 
lectures.  “Have  you  heard  Most?”  I  ask  suddenly. 
“No?  You  must  hear  our  Grand  Old  Man.  He  speaks 
to-morrow;  will  you  come  with  me?” — Eagerly  I  look 
forward  to  the  next  evening,  and  hasten  to  the  cafe. 
It  is  frosty  outdoors  as  I  walk  the  narrow,  dark  streets 
in  animated  discussion  with  “Comrade  Rochester.”  The 
ancient  sidewalks  are  uneven  and  cracked,  in  spots 
crusted  with  filth.  As  we  cross  Delancey  Street,  the  girl 
slips  and  almost  falls,  when  I  catch  her  in  my  arms  just 
in  time  to  prevent  her  head  striking  the  curbstone.  “You 


MEMORY-GUESTS 


237 


have  saved  my  life,”  she  smiles  at  me,  her  eyes  dancing 

vivaciously . With  great  pride  I  introduce  my  new 

friend  to  the  inteligentzici  of  the  Ghetto,  among  the 
exiles  of  the  colony.  Ah,  the  exaltation,  the  joy  of 
being!  ....  The  whole  history  of  revolutionary  Russia 
is  mirrored  in  our  circles ;  every  shade  of  temperamental 
Nihilism  and  political  view  is  harbored  there.  I  see 
Hartman,  surrounded  by  the  halo  of  conspirative  mys¬ 
tery;  at  his  side  is  the  velikorussian,  with  flowing  beard 
and  powerful  frame,  of  the  older  generation  of  the 
narodovoiltsy ;  and  there  is  Schewitsch,  big  and  broad  of 
feature,  the  typical  dvoryanin  who  has  cast  in  his  lot 
with  the  proletariat.  The  line  of  contending  faiths  is 
not  drawn  sharply  in  the  colony:  Cahan  is  among  us, 
stentorian  of  voice  and  bristling  with  aggressive  vitality ; 
Solotaroff,  his  pale  student  face  peculiarly  luminous; 
Miller,  poetically  eloquent,  and  his  strangely-named 
brother  Brandes,  looking  consumptive  from  his  ex¬ 
perience  in  the  Odessa  prison.  Timmermann  and 
Aleinikoff,  Rinke  and  Weinstein — all  are  united  in 
enthusiasm  for  the  common  cause.  Types  from  Tur¬ 
genev  and  Chernishevski,  from  Dostoyevski  and  Ne- 
krassov,  mingle  in  the  seeming  confusion  of  reality,  in¬ 
dividualized  with  varying  shade  and  light.  And  other 
elements  are  in  the  colony,  the  splashed  quivers  of  the 
simmering  waters  of  Tsardom.  Shapes  in  the  making, 
still  being  kneaded  in  the  mold  of  old  tradition  and 
new  environment.  Who  knows  what  shall  be  the  amal¬ 
gam,  some  day  to  be  recast  by  the  master  hand  of  a 
new  Turgenev?  .  .  . 

Often  the  solitary  hours  are  illumined  by  scenes  of 
the  past.  With  infinite  detail  I  live  again  through  the 
years  of  the  inspiring  friendship  that  held  the  Girl,  the 
Twin,  and  myself  in  the  closest  bonds  of  revolutionary 


238  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


aspiration  and  personal  intimacy.  How  full  of  interest 
and  rich  promise  was  life  in  those  days,  so  far  away, 
when  after  the  hours  of  humiliating  drudgery  in  the  fac¬ 
tory  I  would  hasten  to  the  little  room  in  Suffolk  Street! 
Small  and  narrow,  with  its  diminutive  table  and  solitary 
chair,  the  cage-like  bedroom  would  be  transfigured  into 
the  sanctified  chamber  of  fate,  holding  the  balance  of 
the  world’s  weal.  Only  two  could  sit  on  the  little  cot, 
the  third  on  the  rickety  chair.  And  if  somebody  else 
called,  we  would  stand  around  the  room,  filling  the 
air  with  the  glowing  hope  of  our  young  hearts,  in  the 
firm  consciousness  that  we  were  hastening  the  steps  of 
progress,  advancing  the  glorious  Dawn. 

The  memory  of  the  life  “outside”  intensifies  the 
misery  of  the  solitary.  I  brood  over  the  uselessness  of 
my  suffering.  My  mission  in  life  terminated  with  the 
Attentat.  What  good  can  my  continued  survival  do? 
My  propagandistic  value  as  a  living  example  of  class 
injustice  and  political  persecution  is  not  of  sufficient  im¬ 
portance  to  impose  upon  me  the  duty  of  existence.  And 
even  if  it  were,  the  almost  three  years  of  my  imprison¬ 
ment  have  served  the  purpose.  Escape  is  out  of  con¬ 
sideration,  so  long  as  I  remain  constantly  under  lock 
and  key,  the  subject  of  special  surveillance.  Communi¬ 
cation  with  Nold  and  Bauer,  too,  is  daily  growing  more 
difficult.  My  health  is  fast  failing;  I  am  barely  able  to 
walk.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  misery  and  torture? 
What  is  the  use?  .... 

In  such  moments,  I  stand  on  the  brink  of  eternity. 
Is  it  sheer  apathy  and  languor  that  hold  the  weak  thread 
of  life,  or  nature’s  law  and  the  inherent  spirit  of  re¬ 
sistance?  Were  I  not  in  the  enemy’s  power,  I  should 
unhesitatingly  cross  the  barrier.  But  as  a  pioneer  of 
the  Cause,  I  must  live  and  struggle.  Yet  life  without 


MEMORY-GUESTS 


239 


activity  or  interest  is  terrifying.  ...  I  long  for  sympathy 
and  affection.  With  an  aching  heart  I  remember  my 
comrades  and  friends,  and  the  Girl.  More  and  more 
my  mind  dwells  upon  tender  memories.  I  wake  at  night 
with  a  passionate  desire  for  the  sight  of  a  sweet  face, 
the  touch  of  a  soft  hand.  A  wild  yearning  fills  me  for 
the  women  I  have  known,  as  they  pass  in  my  mind’s 
eye  from  the  time  of  my  early  youth  to  the  last  kiss  of 
feminine  lips.  With  a  thrill  I  recall  each  bright  look 
and  tender  accent.  My  heart  beats  tumultuously  as  I 
meet  little  Nadya,  on  the  way  to  school,  pretending  I 
do  not  see  her.  I  turn  around  to  admire  the  golden  locks 
floating  in  the  breeze,  when  I  surprise  her  stealthily 
watching  me.  I  adore  her  secretly,  but  proudly  decline 
my  chum’s  offer  to  introduce  me.  How  foolish  of  me ! 
But  I  know  no  timid  shrinking  as  I  wait,  on  a  cold 
winter  evening,  for  our  neighbor’s  servant  girl  to  cross 
the  yard ;  and  how  unceremoniously  I  embrace  her !  She 
is  not  a  barishnya ;  I  need  not  mask  my  feelings.  And 
she  is  so  primitive ;  she  accuses  me  of  knowing  things 
“not  fit  for  a  boy”  of  my  age.  But  she  kisses  me  again, 
and  passion  wakes  at  the  caress  of  the  large,  coarse  hand. 

.  .  .  My  Eldridge  Street  platonic  sweetheart  stands  be¬ 
fore  me,  and  I  tingle  with  every  sensual  emotion  of  my 
first  years  in  New  York.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  New  Haven 
days  rises  the  image  of  Luba,  sweeping  me  with  unutter¬ 
able  longing  for  the  unattained.  And  again  I  live 
through  the  experiences  of  the  past,  passionately  visual¬ 
izing  every  detail  with  images  that  flatter  my  erotic 
palate  and  weave  exquisite  allurement  about  the  urge  of 
sex. 


i  „ 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 

'  I 

To  K.  &  G. 

Good  news !  I  was  let  out  of  the  cell  this  morning.  The 
coffee-boy  on  my  range  went  home  yesterday,  and  I  was  put 
in  his  place. 

It’s  lucky  the  old  Deputy  died — he  was  determined  to  keep 
me  in  solitary.  In  the  absence  of  the  Warden,  Benny  Greaves, 
the  new  Deputy,  told  me  he  will  “risk”  giving  me  a  job.  But 
he  has  issued  strict  orders  I  should  not  be  permitted  to  step 
into  the  yard.  I’ll  therefore  still  be  under  special  surveillance, 
and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  you.  But  I  am  in  touch  with 
our  “Faithful,”  and  we  can  now  resume  a  more  regular  corre¬ 
spondence. 

Over  a  year  in  solitary.  It’s  almost  like  liberty  to  be  out 
of  the  cell ! 

M. 

II 

My  position  as  coffee-boy  affords  many  opportunities 
for  closer  contact  with  the  prisoners.  I  assist  the  range- 
man  in  taking  care  of  a  row  of  sixty-four  cells  situated 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  lettered  K.  Above  it  are,  suc¬ 
cessively,  I,  H,  G,  and  F,  located  on  the  yard  side  of 
the  cell-house.  On  the  opposite  side,  facing  the  river, 
the  ranges  are  labelled  A,  B,  C,  D,  and  E.  The  galleries 
form  parallelograms  about  each  double  cell-row ;  bridged 
at  the  centre,  they  permit  easy  access  to  the  several 

240 


CELL  RANGES — SOUTH  BLOCK 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


241 


ranges.  The  ten  tiers,  with  a  total  of  six  hundred  and 
forty  cells,  are  contained  within  the  outer  stone  build¬ 
ing,  and  comprise  the  North  Block  of  the  penitentiary. 
It  connects  with  the  South  Wing  by  means  of  the 
rotunda. 

The  bottom  tiers  A  and  K  serve  as  “receiving” 
ranges.  Here  every  new  arrival  is  temporarily  “celled,” 
before  he  is  assigned  to  work  and  transferred  to  the  gal¬ 
lery  occupied  by  his  shop-fellows.  On  these  ranges  are 
also  located  the  men  undergoing  special  punishment  in 
basket  and  solitary.  The  lower  end  of  the  two  ranges 
is  designated  “bughouse  row.”  It  contains  the  “cranks,” 
among  whom  are  classed  inmates  in  different  stages  of 
mental  aberration. 

My  various  duties  of  sweeping  the  hall,  dusting  the 
cell  doors,  and  assisting  at  feeding,  enable  me  to  become 
acquainted  and  to  form  friendships.  I  marvel  at  the 
inadequacy  of  my  previous  notions  of  “the  criminal.” 
I  resent  the  presumption  of  “science”  that  pretends  to 
evolve  the  intricate  convolutions  of  a  living  human  brain 
out  of  the  shape  of  a  digit  cut  from  a  dead  hand,  and 
labels  it  “criminal  type.”  Daily  association  dispels  the 
myth  of  the  “species,”  and  reveals  the  individual.  Grow¬ 
ing  intimacy  discovers  the  humanity  beneath  fibers  coars¬ 
ened  by  lack  of  opportunity,  and  brutalized  by  misery  and 
fear.  There  is  “Reddie”  Butch,  a  rosy-cheeked  young 
fellow  of  twenty-one,  as  frank-spoken  a  boy  as  ever 
honored  a  striped  suit.  A  jolly  criminal  is  Butch,  with 
his  irrepressible  smile  and  gay  song.  He  was  “just  dying 
to  take  his  girl  for  a  ride,”  he  relates  to  me.  But  he 
couldn’t  afford  it ;  he  earned  only  seven  dollars  per  week, 
as  butcher’s  boy.  He  always  gave  his  mother  every 
penny  he  made,  but  the  girl  kept  taunting  him  because 
he  couldn’t  spend  anything  on  her.  “And  I  goes  to  work 
and  swipes  a  rig,  and  say,  Aleck,  you  ought  to  see  me 


242  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


drive  to  me  girl’s  house,  big-like.  In  I  goes.  ‘Put  on 
your  glad  duds,  Kate,’  I  says,  says  I,  ‘I’ll  give  you  the 
drive  of  your  life.’  And  I  did;  you  bet  your  sweet  life, 
I  did,  ha,  ha,  ha!”  But  when  he  returned  the  rig  to  its 
owner,  Butch  was  arrested.  “  ‘Just  a  prank,  Your 
Honor,’  I  says  to  the  Judge.  And  what  d’  you  think, 
Aleck  ?  Thought  I’d  die  when  he  said  three  years.  I  was 
foolish,  of  course;  but  there’s  no  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk,  ha,  ha,  ha!  But  you  know,  the  worst  of  it  is,  me 
girl  went  back  on  me.  Wouldn’t  that  jar  you,  eh?  Well, 
I’ll  try  hard  to  forget  th’  minx.  She’s  a  sweet  girl, 
though,  you  bet,  ha,  ha,  ha!” 

And  there  is  Young  Rush,  the  descendant  of  the 
celebrated  family  of  the  great  American  physician.  The 
delicate  features,  radiant  with  spirituality,  bear  a  strik¬ 
ing  resemblance  to  Shelley;  the  limping  gait  recalls  the 
tragedy  of  Byron.  He  is  in  for  murder !  He  sits  at  the 
door,  an  open  book  in  his  hands, — the  page  is  moist  with 
the  tears  silently  trickling  down  his  face.  He  smiles  at 
my  approach,  and  his  expressive  eyes  light  up  the  dark¬ 
ened  cell,  like  a  glimpse  of  the  sun  breaking  through 
the  clouds.  He  was  wooing  a  girl  on  a  Summer  night; 
the  skiff  suddenly  upturned,  “right  opposite  here,” — he 
points  to  the  river, — “near  McKees  Rocks.”  He  was 
dragged  out,  unconscious.  They  told  him  the  girl  was 
dead,  and  that  he  was  her  murderer!  He  reaches  for 
the  photograph  on  his  table,  and  bursts  into  sobs. 

Daily  I  sweep  the  length  of  the  hall,  advancing  from 
cell  to  cell  with  deliberate  stroke,  all  the  while  watching 
for  an  opportunity  to  exchange  a  greeting,  with  the 
prisoners.  My  mind  reverts  to  poor  Wingie.  How  he 
cheered  me  in  the  first  days  of  misery;  how  kind  he 
was!  In  gentler  tones  I  speak  to  the  unfortunates,  and 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


243 


encourage  the  new  arrivals,  or  indulge  some  demented 
prisoner  in  a  harmless  whim.  The  dry  sweeping  of  the 
hallway  raises  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  loud  coughing  follows 
in  my  wake.  Taking  advantage  of  the  old  Block  Cap¬ 
tain’s  “cold  in  the  head,”  I  cautiously  hint  at  the  danger 
of  germs  lurking  in  the  dust-laden  atmosphere.  “A 
little  wet  sawdust  on  the  floor,  Mr.  Mitchell,  and  you 
wouldn’t  catch  colds  so  often.”  A  capital  idea,  he  thinks, 
and  thereafter  I  guard  the  precious  supply  under  the  bed 
in  my  cell. 

In  little  ways  I  seek  to  help  the  men  in  solitary. 
Every  trifle  means  so  much.  “Long  Joe,”  the  rangeman, 
whose  duty  it  is  to  attend  to  their  needs,  is  engrossed 
with  his  own  troubles.  The  poor  fellow  is  serving 
twenty-five  years,  and  he  is  much  worried  by  “Wild 
Bill”  arid  “Bighead”  Wilson.  They  are  constantly 
demanding  to  see  the  Warden.  It  is  remarkable  that 
they  are  never  refused.  The  guards  seem  to  stand  in 
fear  of  them.  “Wild  Bill”  is  a  self-confessed  invert,  and 
there  are  peculiar  rumors  concerning  his  intimacy  with 
the  Warden.  Recently  Bill  complained  of  indigestion, 
and  a  guard  sent  me  to  deliver  some  delicacies  to  him. 
“From  the  Warden’s  table,”  he  remarked,  with  a  sly 
wink.  And  Wilson  is  jocularly  referred  to  as  “the 
Deputy,”  even  by  the  officers.  He  is  still  in  stripes,  but 
he  seems  to  wield  some  powerful  influence  over  the  new 
Deputy ;  he  openly  defies  the  rules,  upbraids  the  guards, 
and  issues  orders.  He  is  the  Warden’s  “runner,”  clad 
with  the  authority  of  his  master.  The  prisoners  regard 
Bill  and  Wilson  as  stools,  and  cordially  hate  them;  but 
none  dare  offend  them.  Poor  Joe  is  constantly  harassed 
by  “Deputy”  Wilson;  there  seems  to  be  bitter  enmity 
between  the  two  on  account  of  a  young  prisoner  who 
prefers  the  friendship  of  Joe.  Worried  by  the  complex 
intrigues  of  life  in  the  block,  the  rangeman  is  indifferent 


244  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


to  the  unfortunates  in  the  cells.  Butch  is  devoured  by 
bedbugs,  and  “Praying”  Andy’s  mattress  is  flattened  into 
a  pancake.  The  simple-minded  life-timer  is  being  neg¬ 
lected:  he  has  not  yet  recovered  from  the  assault  by 
Johnny  Smith,  who  hit  him  on  the  head  with  a  hammer. 
I  urge  the  rangeman  to  report  to  the  Captain  the  need 
of  “bedbugging”  Butch’s  cell,  of  supplying  Andy  with  a 
new  mattress,  and  of  notifying  the  doctor  of  the  increas¬ 
ing  signs  of  insanity  among  the  solitaries. 

Ill 

Breakfast  is  over;  the  lines  form  in  lockstep,  and 
march  to  the  shops.  Broom  in  hand,  rangemen  and 
assistants  step  upon  the  galleries,  and  commence  to 
sweep  the  floors.  Officers  pass  along  the  tiers,  closely 
scrutinizing  each  cell.  Now  and  then  they  pause,  facing 
a  “delinquent.”  They  note  his  number,  unlock  the  door, 
and  the  prisoner  joins  the  “sick  line”  on  the  ground  floor. 

One  by  one  the  men  augment  the  row;  they  walk 
slowly,  bent  and  coughing,  painfully  limping  down  the 
steep  flights.  From  every  range  they  come;  the  old  and 
decrepit,  the  young  consumptives,  the  lame  and  asth¬ 
matic,  a  tottering  old  negro,  an  idiotic  white  boy.  All 
look  withered  and  dejected, — a  ghastly  line,  palsied  and 
blear-eyed,  blanched  in  the  valley  of  death. 

The  rotunda  door  opens  noisily,  and  the  doctor  en¬ 
ters,  accompanied  by  Deputy  Warden  Greaves  and 
Assistant  Deputy  Hopkins.  Behind  them  is  a  prisoner, 
dressed  in  dark  gray  and  carrying  a  medicine  box.  Dr. 
Boyce  glances  at  the  long  line,  and  knits  his  brows.  He 
looks  at  his  watch,  and  the  frown  deepens.  He  has 
much  to  do.  Since  the  death  of  the  senior  doctor,  the 
young  graduate  is  the  sole  physician  of  the  big  prison. 
He  must  make  the  rounds  of  the  shops  before  noon, 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


245 


and  visit  the  patients  in  the  hospital  before  the  Warden 
or  the  Deputy  drops  in. 

Mr.  Greaves  sits  down  at  the  officers’  desk,  near  the 
hall  entrance.  The  Assistant  Deputy,  pad  in  hand, 
places  himself  at  the  head  of  the  sick  line.  The  doctor 
leans  against  the  door  of  the  rotunda,  facing  the  Deputy. 
The  block  officers  stand  within  call,  at  respectful  dis¬ 
tances. 

“Two-fifty-five !”  the  Assistant  Deputy  calls  out. 

A  slender  young  man  leaves  the  line  and  approaches 
the  doctor.  He  is  tall  and  well  featured,  the  large  eyes 
lustrous  in  the  pale  face.  He  speaks  in  a  hoarse  voice: 

“Doctor,  there  is  something  the  matter  with  my  side. 
I  have  pains,  and  I  cough  bad  at  night,  and  in  the  morn¬ 
ing—” 

“All  right,”  the  doctor  interrupts,  without  looking 
up  from  his  note  book.  “Give  him  some  salts,”  he  adds, 
with  a  nod  to  his  assistant. 

“Next!”  the  Deputy  calls. 

“Will  you  please  excuse  me  from  the  shop  for  a  few 
days?”  the  sick  prisoner  pleads,  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

The  physician  glances  questioningly  at  the  Deputy. 
The  latter  cries,  impatiently,  “Next,  next  man!”  striking 
ihe  desk  twice,  in  quick  succession,  with  the  knuckles  of 
his  hand. 

“Return  to  the  shop,”  the  doctor  says  to  the  prisoner. 

“Next!”  the  Deputy  calls,  spurting  a  stream  of 
tobacco  juice  in  the  direction  of  the  cuspidor.  It  strikes 
sidewise,  and  splashes  over  the  foot  of  the  approaching 
new  patient,  a  young  negro,  his  neck  covered  with  bulg¬ 
ing  tumors. 

“Number?”  the  doctor  inquires. 

“One-thirty-seven,  A  one-thirty-seven !”  the  Deputy 
mumbles,  his  head  thrown  back  to  receive  a  fresh  hand¬ 
ful  of  “scrap”  tobacco. 


246  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Guess  Ah’s  got  de  big  neck,  Ah  is,  Mistah  Boyce/' 
the  negro  says  hoarsely. 

“Salts.  Return  to  work.  Next!” 

“A  one-twenty-six !” 

A  young  man  with  parchment-like  face,  sere  and 
yellow,  walks  painfully  from  the  line. 

“Doctor,  I  seem  to  be  gettin’  worser,  and  I’m 
afraid — ” 

“What’s  the  trouble?” 

“Pains  in  the  stomach.  Gettin’  so  turrible,  I — ” 

“Give  him  a  plaster.  Next!” 

“Plaster  hell !”  the  prisoner  breaks  out  in  a  fury,  his 
face  growing  livid.  “Look  at  this,  will  you?”  With  a 
quick  motion  he  pulls  his  shirt  up  to  his  head.  His  chest 
and  back  are  entirely  covered  with  porous  plasters;  not 
an  inch  of  skin  is  visible.  “Damn  yer  plasters,”  he  cries 
with  sudden  sobs,  “I  ain’t  got  no  more  room  for  plasters. 
I’m  putty  near  dyin’,  an’  you  won’t  do  nothin’  fer  me.” 

The  guards  pounce  upon  the  man,  and  drag  him 
into  the  rotunda. 

One  by  one  the  sick  prisoners  approach  the  doctor. 
He  stands,  head  bent,  penciling,  rarely  glancing  up.  The 
elongated  ascetic  face  wears  a  preoccupied  look;  he 
drawls  mechanically,  in  monosyllables,  “Next!  Numb’r? 
Salts!  Plaster!  Salts!  Next!”  Occasionally  he  glances 
at  his  watch;  his  brows  knit  closer,  the  heavy  furrow 
deepens,  and  the  austere  face  grows  more  severe  and 
rigid.  Now  and  then  he  turns  his  eyes  upon  the  Deputy 
Warden,  sitting  opposite,  his  jaws  incessantly  working, 
a  thin  stream  of  tobacco  trickling  down  his  chin,  and 
heavily  streaking  the  gray  beard.  Cheeks  protruding, 
mouth  full  of  juice,  the  Deputy  mumbles  unintelligently, 
turns  to  expectorate,  suddenly  shouts  “Next!”  and  gives 
two  quick  knocks  on  the  desk,  signaling  to  the  physician 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


247 


to  order  the  man  to  work.  Only  the  withered  and  the 
lame  are  temporarily  excused,  the  Deputy  striking  the 
desk  thrice  to  convey  the  permission  to  the  doctor. 

Dejected  and  forlorn,  the  sick  line  is  conducted  to 
the  shops,  coughing,  wheezing,  and  moaning,  only  to 
repeat  the  ordeal  the  following  morning.  Quite  often, 
breaking  down  at  the  machine  or  fainting  at  the  task, 
the  men  are  carried  on  a  stretcher  to  the  hospital,  to 
receive  a  respite  from  the  killing  toil, — a  short  intermis¬ 
sion,  or  a  happier,  eternal  reprieve. 

The  lame  and  the  feeble,  too  withered  to  be  useful 
in  the  shops,  are  sent  back  to  their  quarters,  and  locked 
up  for  the  day.  Only  these,  the  permitted  delinquents, 
the  insane,  the  men  in  solitary,  and  the  sweepers,  remain 
within  the  inner  walls  during  working  hours.  The  pall 
of  silence  descends  upon  the  House  of  Death. 

IV 

The  guards  creep  stealthily  along  the  tiers.  Officer 
George  Dean,  lank  and  tall,  tiptoes  past  the  cells,  his 
sharply  hooked  nose  in  advance,  his  evil-looking  eyes 
peering  through  the  bars,  scrutinizing  every  inmate. 
Suddenly  the  heavy  jaws  snap.  “Hey,  you,  Eleven- 
thirty-nine  !  On  the  bed  again !  Wha-at  ?  Sick,  hell ! 
No  din-ner !”  Noisily  he  pretends  to  return  to  the  desk 
“in  front,”  quietly  steals  into  the  niche  of  a  cell  door, 
and  stands  motionless,  alertly  listening.  A  suppressed 
murmur  proceeds  from  the  upper  galleries.  Cautiously 
the  guard  advances,  hastily  passes  several  cells,  pauses 
a  moment,  and  then  quickly  steps  into  the  center  of  the 
hall,  shouting:  “Cells  forty-seven  K,  I,  H!  Talking 
through  the  pipe !  Got  you  this  time,  all  right.”  He 
grins  broadly  as  he  returns  to  the  desk,  and  reports  to 
the  Block  Captain.  The  guards  ascend  the  galleries. 


248  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Levers  are  pulled,  doors  opened  with  a  bang,  and  the 
three  prisoners  are  marched  to  the  office.  For  days 
their  cells  remain  vacant:  the  men  are  in  the  dungeon. 

Gaunt  and  cadaverous,  Guard  Hughes  makes  the 
rounds  of  the  tiers,  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  With 
bleary  eyes,  sunk  deep  in  his  head,  he  gazes  intently 
through  the  bars.  The  men  are  out  at  work.  Leisurely 
he  walks  along,  stepping  from  cell  to  cell,  here  tearing  a 
picture  off  the  wall,  there  gathering  a  few  scraps  of 
paper.  As  I  pass  along  the  hall,  he  slams  a  door  on  the 
range  above,  and  appears  upon  the  gallery.  His  pockets 
bulge  with  confiscated  goods.  He  glances  around,  as 
the  Deputy  enters  from  the  yard.  “Hey,  Jasper!”  the 
guard  calls.  The  colored  trusty  scampers  up  the  stairs. 
“Take  this  to  the  front.”  The  officer  hands  him  a 
dilapidated  magazine,  two  pieces  of  cornbread,  a  little 
square  of  cheese,  and  several  candles  that  some  weak- 
eyed  prisoner  had  saved  up  by  sitting  in  the  dark  for 
weeks.  “Show  ’t  to  the  Deputy,”  the  officer  says,  in  an 
undertone.  “I’m  doing  business,  all  right!”  The  trusty 
laughs  boisterously,  “Yassah,  yassah,  dat  yo  sure  am.” 

The  guard  steps  into  the  next  cell,  throwing  a  quick 
look  to  the  front.  The  Deputy  is  disappearing  through 
the  rotunda  door.  The  officer  casts  his  eye  about  the 
cell.  The  table  is  littered  with  magazines  and  papers. 
A  piece  of  matting,  stolen  from  the  shops,  is  on  the 
floor.  On  the  bed  are  some  bananas  and  a  bunch  of 
grapes, — forbidden  fruit.  The  guard  steps  back  to  the 
gallery,  a  faint  smile  on  his  thin  lips.  He  reaches  for 
the  heart-shaped  wooden  block  hanging  above  the  cell. 
It  bears  the  legend,  painted  in  black,  A  480.  On  the 
reverse  side  the  officer  reads,  “Collins  Hamilton,  dated 

- .”  His  watery  eyes  strain  to  decipher  the  penciled 

marks  paled  by  the  damp,  whitewashed  wall.  “Jasper!” 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


249 


he  calls,  “come  up  here.”  The  trusty  hastens  to  him. 

“You  know  who  this  man  is,  Jasper?  A  four- 
eighty.” 

“Ah  sure  knows.  Dat  am  Hamilton,  de  bank  ’bez- 
leh” 

“Where’s  he  working?” 

“Wat  he  wan’  teh  work  foh?  He  am  de  Cap’n’s 
clerk.  In  de  awfice,  he  am.” 

“All  right,  Jasper.”  The  guard  carefully  closes  the 
clerk’s  door,  and  enters  the  adjoining  cell.  It  looks  clean 
and  orderly.  The  stone  floor  is  bare,  the  bedding  smooth ; 
the  library  book,  tin  can,  and  plate,  are  neatly  arranged 
on  the  table.  The  officer  ransacks  the  bed,  throws  the 
blankets  on  the  floor,  and  stamps  his  feet  upon  the 
pillow  in  search  of  secreted  contraband.  He  reaches 
up  to  the  wooden  shelf  on  the  wall,  and  takes  down  the 
little  bag  of  scrap  tobacco, — the  weekly  allowance  of 
the  prisoners.  He  empties  a  goodly  part  into  his  hand, 
shakes  it  up,  and  thrusts  it  into  his  mouth.  He  produces 
a  prison  “plug”  from  his  pocket,  bites  off  a  piece,  spits 
in  the  direction  of  the  privy,  and  yawns;  looks  at  his 
watch,  deliberates  a  moment,  spurts  a  stream  of  juice 
into  the  corner,  and  cautiously  steps  out  on  the  gallery. 
He  surveys  the  field,  leans  over  the  railing,  and  squints 
at  the  front.  The  chairs  at  the  officers’  desk  are  vacant. 
The  guard  retreats  into  the  cell,  yawns  and  stretches, 
and  looks  at  his  watch  again.  It  is  only  nine  o’clock. 
He  picks  up  the  library  book,  listlessly  examines  the 
cover,  flings  the  book  on  the  shelf,  spits  disgustedly, 
then  takes  another  chew,  and  sprawls  down  on  the  bed. 

V 

At  the  head  of  the  hall,  Senior  Officer  Woods  and 
Assistant  Deputy  Hopkins  sit  at  the  desk.  Of  superb 


250  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


physique  and  glowing  vitality,  Mr.  Woods  wears  his 
new  honors  as  Captain  of  the  Block  with  aggressive 
self-importance.  He  has  recently  been  promoted  from 
the  shop  to  the  charge  of  the  North  Wing,  on  the  morn¬ 
ing  shift,  from  5  A.  M.  to  1  P.  M.  Every  now  and 
then  he  leaves  his  chair,  walks  majestically  down  the 
hallway,  crosses  the  open  centre,  and  returns  past  the 
opposite  cell-row. 

With  studied  dignity  he  resumes  his  seat  and  ad¬ 
dresses  his  superior,  the  Assistant  Deputy,  in  measured, 
low  tones.  The  latter  listens  gravely,  his  head  slightly 
bent,  his  sharp  gray  eyes  restless  above  the  heavy- 
rimmed  spectacles.  As  Mr.  Hopkins,  angular  and  stoop¬ 
shouldered,  rises  to  expectorate  into  the  nearby  sink,  he 
espies  the  shining  face  of  Jasper  on  an  upper  gallery. 
The  Assistant  Deputy  smiles,  produces  a  large  apple 
from  his  pocket,  and,  holding  it  up  to  view,  asks : 

“How  does  this  strike  you,  Jasper?” 

“Looks  teh  dis  niggah  like  a  watahmelon,  Cunnel.” 

Woods  struggles  to  suppress  a  smile.  Hopkins 
laughs,  and  motions  to  the  negro.  The  trusty  joins  them 
at  the  desk. 

“I’ll  bet  the  coon  could  get  away  with  this  apple  in 
two  bites,”  the  Assistant  Deputy  says  to  Woods. 

“Hardly  possible,”  the  latter  remarks,  doubtfully. 

“You  don’t  know  this  darky,  Scot,”  Hopkins  rejoins. 
“I  know  him  for  the  last — let  me  see — fifteen,  eighteen, 
twenty  years.  That’s  when  you  first  came  here,  eh,  Jas¬ 
per?” 

“Yassah,  ’bout  dat.” 

“In  the  old  prison,  then?”  Woods  inquires. 

“Yes,  of  course.  You  was  there,  Jasper,  when  ‘Shoe- 
box’  Miller  got  out,  wasn’t  you?” 

“Yo  ’member  good,  Cunnel.  Dat  Ah  was,  sure  ’nuf. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


251 


En  mighty  slick  it  was,  bress  me,  teh  hab  imsef  nailed 
in  dat  shoebox,  en  mek  his  get-away.” 

“Yes,  yes.  And  this  is  your  fourth  time  since  then, 

I  believe.” 

“No,  sah,  no,  sah ;  dere  yo  am  wrong,  Cunnel.  Youh 
remnishent  am  bad.  Dis  jus’  free  times,  jus’  free.” 

“Come  off,  it’s  four.” 

“Free,  Cunnel,  no  moah.” 

“Do  you  think,  Mr.  Hopkins,  Jasper  could  eat  the 
apple  in  two  bites?”  Woods  reminds  him. 

“I’m  sure  he  can.  There’s  nothing  in  the  eating  line 
this  coon  couldn’t  do.  Here,  Jasper,  you  get  the  apple  if 
you  make  it  in  two  bites.  Don’t  disgrace  me,  now.” 

The  negro  grins.  “Putty  big,  Cunnel,  but  Ah’m  a 
gwine  teh  try  powful  hard.” 

With  a  heroic  effort  he  stretches  his  mouth,  till  his 
face  looks  like  a  veritable  cavern,  reaching  from  ear  to 
ear,  and  edged  by  large,  shimmering  tusks.  With  both 
hands  he  inserts  the  big  apple,  and  his  sharp  teeth  come 
down  with  a  loud  snap.  He  chews  quickly,  swallows, 
repeats  the  performance,  and  then  holds  up  his  hands. 
The  apple  has  disappeared. 

The  Assistant  Deputy  roars  with  laughter.  “What 
did  I  tell  you,  eh,  Scot?  What  did  I  tell  you,  ho,  ho, 
ho!”  The  tears  glisten  in  his  eye. 

They  amuse  themselves  with  the  negro  trusty  by  the 
hour.  He  relates  his  experiences,  tells  humorous  anec¬ 
dotes,  and  the  officers  are  merry.  Now  and  then  Deputy 
Warden  Greaves  drops  in.  Woods  rises. 

“Have  a  seat,  Mr.  Greaves.” 

“That’s  all  right,  that’s  all  right,  Scot,”  the  Deputy 
mumbles,  his  eye  searching  for  the  cuspidor.  “Sit  down, 
Scot;  I’m  as  young  as  any  of  you.” 

With  mincing  step  he  walks  into  the  first  cell,  re- 


252  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


served  for  the  guards,  pulls  a  bottle  from  his  hip  pocket, 
takes  several  quick  gulps,  wabbles  back  to  the  desk,  and 
sinks  heavily  into  Woods’s  seat. 

“Jasper,  go  bring  me  a  chew,”  he  turns  to  the  trusty. 

“Yassah.  Scrap,  Dep’ty?” 

“Yah.  A  nip  of  plug,  too.” 

“Yassah,  yassah,  immejitly.” 

“What  are  you  men  doing  here  ?”  the  Deputy  blusters 
at  the  two  subordinates. 

Woods  frowns,  squares  his  shoulders,  glances  at  the 
Deputy,  and  then  relaxes  into  a  dignified  smile.  Assis¬ 
tant  Hopkins  looks  sternly  at  the  Deputy  Warden  from 
above  his  glasses.  “That’s  all  right,  Greaves,”  he  says, 
familiarly,  a  touch  of  scorn  in  his  voice.  “Say,  you 
should  have  seen  that  nigger  Jasper  swallow  a  great, 
big  apple  in  two  bites;  as  big  as  your  head,  I’ll  swear.” 

“That  sho  ?”  the  Deputy  nods  sleepily. 

The  negro  comes  running  up  with  a  paper  of  scrap 
in  one  hand,  a  plug  in  the  other.  The  Deputy  slowly 
opens  his  eyes.  He  walks  unsteadily  to  the  cell,  remains 
there  a  few  minutes,  and  returns  with  both  hands  fum¬ 
bling  at  his  hip  pocket.  He  spits  viciously  at  the  sink, 
sits  down,  fills  his  mouth  with  tobacco,  glances  at  the 
floor,  and  demands,  hoarsely: 

“Where’s  all  them  spittoons,  eh,  you  men?” 

“Just  being  cleaned,  Mr.  Greaves,”  Woods  replies. 

“Cleaned,  always  th’  shame  shtory.  I  ordered — ya — 
ordered — hey,  bring  shpittoon,  Jasper.”  He  wags  his 
head  drowsily. 

“He  means  he  ordered  spittoons  by  the  wagonload,” 
Hopkins  says,  with  a  wink  at  Woods.  “It  was  the  very 
first  order  he  gave  when  he  became  Deputy  after  Jimmie 
McPane  died.  I  tell  you,  Scot,  we  won’t  see  so  soon 
another  Deputy  like  old  Jimmie.  He  was  Deputy  all 
right,  every  inch  of  him.  Wouldn’t  stand  for  the  old 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


253 


man,  the  Warden,  interfering  with  him,  either.  Not 
like  this  here,”  he  points  contemptuously  at  the  snoring 
Greaves.  “Here,  Benny,”  he  raises  his  voice  and  slaps 
the  Deputy  on  the  knee,  “here’s  Jasper  with  your  spit¬ 
toon.” 

Greaves  wakes  with  a  start,  and  gazes  stupidly  about ; 
presently,  noticing  the  trusty  with  the  large  cuspidor, 
he  spurts  a  long  jet  at  it. 

“Say,  Jasper,”  Hopkins  calls  to  the  retiring  negro, 
“the  Deputy  wants  to  hear  that  story  you  told  us  a  while 
ago,  about  how  you  got  the  left  hind  foot  of  a  she-rabbit, 
on  a  moonlit  night  in  a  graveyard.” 

“Who  shaid  I  want  to  hear  ’t?”  the  Deputy  bristles, 
suddenly  wide  awake. 

“Yes,  you  do,  Greaves,”  Hopkins  asserts.  “The  rab¬ 
bit  foot  brings  good  luck,  you  know.  This  coon  here 
wears  it  on  his  neck.  Show  it  to  the  Deputy,  Jasper.” 

Prisoner  Wilson,  the  Warden’s  favorite  messenger, 
enters  from  the  yard.  With  quick,  energetic  step  he 
passes  the  officers  at  the  desk,  entirely  ignoring  their 
presence,  and  walks  nonchalantly  down  the  hall,  his  un¬ 
naturally  large  head  set  close  upon  the  heavy,  almost 
neckless  shoulders. 

“Hey,  you,  Wilson,  what  are  you  after?”  the  Deputy 
shouts  after  him. 

Without  replying,  Wilson  continues  on  his  way. 

“Dep’ty  Wilson,”  the  negro  jeers,  with  a  look  of 
hatred  and  envy. 

Assistant  Deputy  Hopkins  rises  in  his  seat.  “Wil¬ 
son,”  he  calls  with  quiet  sternness,  “Mr.  Greaves  is 
speaking  to  you.  Come  back  at  once.” 

His  face  purple  with  anger,  Wilson  retraces  his  steps. 
“What  do  you  want,  Deputy?”  he  demands,  savagely. 

The  Deputy  looks  uneasy  and  fidgets  in  his  chair, 


254  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


but  catching  the  severe  eye  of  Hopkins,  he  shouts  ve¬ 
hemently:  “What  do  you  want  in  the  block?” 

“On  Captain  Edward  S.  Wright’s  business,”  Wilson 
replies  with  a  sneer. 

“Well,  go  ahead.  But  next  time  I  call  you,  you  better 
come  back.” 

“The  Warden  told  me  to  hurry.  I’ll  report  to  him 
that  you  detained  me  with  an  idle  question,”  Wilson 
snarls  back. 

“That’ll  do,  Wilson,”  the  Assistant  Deputy  warns  him. 

“Wait  till  I  see  the  Captain,”  Wilson  growls,  as  he 
departs. 

“If  I  had  my  way,  I’d  knock  his  damn  block  off,” 
the  Assistant  mutters. 

“Such  impudence  in  a  convict  cannot  be  tolerated,” 
Woods  comments. 

“The  Cap’n  won’t  hear  a  word  against  Wilson,”  the 
Deputy  says  meekly. 

Hopkins  frowns.  They  sit  in  silence.  The  negro 
busies  himself,  wiping  the  yellow-stained  floor  around 
the  cuspidor.  The  Deputy  ambles  stiffly  to  the  open 
cell.  Woods  rises,  steps  back  to  the  wall,  and  looks 
up  to  the  top  galleries.  No  one  is  about.  He  crosses  to 
the  other  side,  and  scans  the  bottom  range.  Long  and 
dismal  stretches  the  hall,  in  melancholy  white  and  gray, 
the  gloomy  cell-building  brooding  in  the  centre,  like  some 
monstrous  hunchback,  without  life  or  motion.  Woods 
resumes  his  seat. 

“Quiet  as  a  church,”  he  remarks  with  evident  satis¬ 
faction. 

“You’re  doing  well,  Scot,”  the  Deputy  mumbles. 
“Doing  well.” 

A  faint  metallic  sound  breaks  upon  the  stillness.  The 
officers  prick  up  their  ears.  The  rasping  continues  and 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


255 


grows  louder.  The  negro  trusty  tiptoes  up  the  tiers. 

“It’s  somebody  with  his  spoon  on  the  door,”  the 
Assistant  Deputy  remarks,  indifferently. 

The  Block  Captain  motions  to  me.  “See  who’s  rap¬ 
ping  there,  will  you?” 

I  walk  quickly  along  the  hall.  By  keeping  close  to 
the  wall,  I  can  see  up  to  the  doors  of  the  third  gallery. 
Here  and  there  a  nose  protrudes  in  the  air,  the  bleached 
face  glued  to  the  bars,  the  eyes  glassy.  The  rapping 
grows  louder  as  I  advance. 

“Who  is  it?”  I  call. 

“Up  here,  18  C.” 

“Is  that  you,  Ed?” 

“Yes.  Got  a  bad  hemorrhage.  Tell  th’  screw  I  must 
see  the  doctor.” 

I  run  to  the  desk.  “Mr.  Woods,”  I  report,  “18  C 
got  a  hemorrhage.  Can’t  stop  it.  He  needs  the  doctor.” 

“Let  him  wait,”  the  Deputy  growls. 

“Doctor  hour  is  over.  He  should  have  reported  in 
the  morning,”  the  Assistant  Deputy  flares  up. 

“What  shall  I  tell  him,  Mr.  Woods  ?”  I  ask. 

“Nothing!  Get  back  to  your  cell.” 

“Perhaps  you’d  better  go  up  and  take  a  look,  Scot,” 
the  Deputy  suggests. 

Mr.  Woods  strides  along  the  gallery,  pauses  a  mo¬ 
ment  at  18  C,  and  returns. 

“Nothing  much.  A  bit  of  blood.  I  ordered  him  to 
report  on  sick  list  in  the  morning.” 


A  middle-aged  prisoner,  with  confident  bearing  and 
polished  manner,  enters  from  the  yard.  It  is  the  “French 
Count,”  one  of  the  clerks  in  the  “front  office.” 

“Good  morning,  gentlemen,”  he  greets  the  officers. 
He  leans  familiarly  over  the  Deputy’s  chair,  remarking: 


256  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

“I’ve  been  hunting  half  an  hour  for  you.  The  Captain  is 
a  bit  ruffled  this  morning.  He  is  looking  for  you.” 

The  Deputy  hurriedly  rises.  ‘‘Where  is  he?”  he 
asks  anxiously. 

“In  the  office,  Mr.  Greaves.  You  know  what’s 
about  ?” 

“What?  Quick,  now.” 

“They  caught  Wild  Bill  right  in  the  act.  Out  in  the 
yard  there,  back  of  the  shed.” 

The  Deputy  stumps  heavily  out  into  the  yard. 

“Who’s  the  kid?”  the  Assistant  Deputy  inquires,  an 
amused  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

“Bobby.” 

“Who?  That  boy  on  the  whitewash  gang?” 

“Yes,  Fatty  Bobby.” 

The  clatter  on  the  upper  tier  grows  loud  and  violent. 
The  sick  man  is  striking  his  tin  can  on  the  bars,  and 
shaking  the  door.  Woods  hastens  to  C  18. 

“You  stop  that,  you  hear!”  he  commands  angrily. 

“I’m  sick.  I  want  th’  doctor.” 

“This  isn’t  doctor  hour.  You’ll  see  him  in  the  morn- 

mg.” 

“I  may  be  dead  in  the  morning.  I  want  him  now.” 

“You  won’t  see  him,  that’s  all.  You  keep  quiet 
there.” 

Furiously  the  prisoner  raps  on  the  door.  The  hall 
reverberates  with  hollow  booming. 

The  Block  Captain  returns  to  the  desk,  his  face 
crimson.  He  whispers  to  the  Assistant  Deputy.  The 
latter  nods  his  head.  Woods  claps  his  hands,  deliber¬ 
ately,  slowly — one,  two,  three.  Guards  hurriedly  descend 
from  the  galleries,  and  advance  to  the  desk.  The  range- 
men  appear  at  their  doors. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


257 


“Everybody  to  his  cell.  Officers,  lock  ’em  in !” 
Woods  commands. 

“You  can  stay  here,  Jasper,”  the  Assistant  Deputy 
remarks  to  the  trusty. 

The  rangemen  step  into  their  cells.  The  levers  are 
pulled,  the  doors  locked.  I  hear  the  tread  of  many  feet 
on  the  third  gallery.  Now  they  cease,  and  all  is  quiet. 

“C  18,  step  out  here!” 

The  door  slams,  there  is  noisy  shuffling  and  stamp¬ 
ing,  and  the  dull,  heavy  thuds  of  striking  clubs.  A  loud 
cry  and  a  moan.  They  drag  the  prisoner  along  the  range, 
and  down  the  stairway.  The  rotunda  door  creaks,  and 
the  clamor  dies  away. 

A  few  minutes  elapse  in  silence.  Now  some  one  whis¬ 
pers  through  the  pipes;  insane  solitaries  bark  and  crow. 
Loud  coughing  drowns  the  noises,  and  then  the  rotunda 
door  opens  with  a  plaintive  screech. 

The  rangemen  are  unlocked.  I  stand  at  the  open 
door  of  my  cell.  The  negro  trusty  dusts  and  brushes 
the  officers,  their  backs  and  arms  covered  with  white¬ 
wash,  as  if  they  had  been  rubbed  against  the  wall. 

Their  clothes  cleaned  and  smoothed,  the  guards  loll 
in  the  chairs,  and  sit  on  the  desk.  They  look  somewhat 
ruffled  and  flustered.  Jasper  enlarges  upon  the  piquant 
gossip.  “Wild  Bill,”  notorious  invert  and  protege  of 
the  Warden,  he  relates,  had  been  hanging  around  the 
kids  from  the  stocking  shop;  he  has  been  after  “Fatty 
Bobby”  for  quite  a  while,  and  he’s  forever  pestering 
“Lady  Sally,”  and  Young  Davis,  too.  The  guards  are 
astir  with  curiosity;  they  ply  the  negro  with  questions. 
He  responds  eagerly,  raises  his  voice,  and  gesticulates 
Excitedly.  There  is  merriment  and  laughter  at  the  offi¬ 
cers’  desk. 


258  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


VI 

Dinner  hour  is  approaching.  Officer  Gerst,  in  charge 
of  the  kitchen  squad,  enters  the  cell-house.  Behind  him, 
a  score  of  prisoners  carry  large  wooden  tubs  filled  with 
steaming  liquid.  The  negro  trusty,  his  nostrils  expanded 
and  eyes  glistening,  sniffs  the  air,  and  announces  with 
a  grin :  “Dooke’s  mixchoor  foh  dinneh  teh  day !” 

The  scene  becomes  animated  at  the  front.  Tables  are 
noisily  moved  about,  the  tinplate  rattles,  and  men  talk  and 
shout.  With  a  large  ladle  the  soup  is  dished  out  from 
the  tubs,  and  the  pans,  bent  and  rusty,  stacked  up  in 
long  rows.  The  Deputy  Warden  flounces  in,  splutters 
some  orders  that  remain  ignored,  and  looks  critically  at 
the  dinner  pans.  He  produces  a  pocket  knife,  and  ambles 
along  the  tables,  spearing  a  potato  here,  a  bit  of  floating 
vegetable  there.  Guard  Hughes,  his  inspection  of  the 
cells  completed,  saunters  along,  casting  greedy  eyes  at 
the  food.  He  hovers  about,  waiting  for  the  Deputy  to 
leave.  The  latter  stands,  hands  dug  into  his  pockets, 
short  legs  wide  apart,  scraggy  beard  keeping  time  with 
the  moving  jaws.  Guard  Hughes  winks  at  one  of  the 
kitchen  men,  and  slinks  into  an  open  cell.  The  prisoner 
fusses  about,  pretends  to  move  the  empty  tubs  out  of 
the  way,  and  then  quickly  snatches  a  pan  of  soup,  and 
passes  it  to  the  guard.  Negro  Jasper,  alert  and  watchful, 
strolls  by  Woods,  surreptitiously  whispering.  The  officer 
walks  to  the  open  cell  and  surprises  the  guard,  his  head 
thrown  back,  the  large  pan  covering  his  face.  Woods 
smiles  disdainfully,  the  prisoners  giggle  and  chuckle. 

“Chief  Jim,”  the  head  cook,  a  Pittsburgh  saloonkeeper 
serving  twelve  years  for  murder,  promenades  down  the 
range.  Large-bellied  and  whitecapped,  he  wears  an  air 
of  prosperity  and  independence.  With  swelling  chest, 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


259 


stomach  protruding,  and  hand  wrapped  in  his  dirty 
apron,  the  Chief  walks  leisurely  along  the  cells,  nodding 
and  exchanging  greetings.  He  pauses  at  a  door :  it’s 
Cell  9  A, — the  “Fat  Kid.”  Jim  leans  against  the  wall, 
his  back  toward  the  dinner  tables;  presently  his  hand 
steals  between  the  bars.  Now  and  then  he  glances 
toward  the  front,  and  steps  closer  to  the  door.  He  draws 
a  large  bundle  from  his  bosom,  hastily  tears  it  open,  and 
produces  a  piece  of  cooked  meat,  several  raw  onions, 
some  cakes.  One  by  one  he  passes  the  delicacies  to  the 
young  prisoner,  forcing  them  through  the  narrow  open¬ 
ings  between  the  bars.  He  lifts  his  apron,  fans  the 
door  sill,  and  carefully  wipes  the  ironwork;  then  he 
smiles,  casts  a  searching  look  to  the  front,  grips  the  bars 
with  both  hands,  and  vanishes  into  the  deep  niche. 

As  suddenly  he  appears  to  view  again,  takes  several 
quick  steps,  then  pauses  at  another  cell.  Standing  away 
from  the  door,  he  speaks  loudly  and  laughs  boisterously, 
his  hands  fumbling  beneath  the  apron.  Soon  he  leaves, 
advancing  to  the  dinner  tables.  He  approaches  the 
rangeman,  lifts  his  eyebrows  questioningly,  and  winks. 
The  man  nods  affirmatively,  and  retreats  into  his  cell. 
The  Chief  dives  into  the  bosom  of  his  shirt,  and  flings 
a  bundle  through  the  open  door.  He  holds  out  his  hand, 
whispering:  “Two  bits.  Broke  now?  Be  sure  you  pay 
me  to-morrow.  That  steak  there’s  worth  a  plunk.” 

The  gong  tolls  the  dinner  hour.  The  negro  trusty 
snatches  two  pans,  and  hastens  away.  The  guards  un¬ 
lock  the  prisoners,  excepting  the  men  in  solitary  who  are 
deprived  of  the  sole  meal  of  the  day.  The  line  forms 
in  single  file,  and  advances  slowly  to  the  tables ;  then, 
pan  in  hand,  the  men  circle  the  block  to  the  centre, 
ascend  the  galleries,  and  are  locked  in  their  cells. 

The  loud  tempo  of  many  feet,  marching  in  step, 


260  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


sounds  from  the  yard.  The  shop  workers  enter,  receive 
the  pan  of  soup,  and  walk  to  the  cells.  Some  sniff  the 
air,  make  a  wry  face,  and  pass  on,  empty-handed.  There 
is  much  suppressed  murmuring  and  whispering. 

Gradually  the  sounds  die  away.  It  is  the  noon  hour. 
Every  prisoner  is  counted  and  locked  in.  Only  the 
trusties  are  about. 


VII 

The  afternoon  brings  a  breath  of  relief.  “Old  Jim¬ 
mie”  Mitchell,  rough-spoken  and  kind,  heads  the  second 
shift  of  officers,  on  duty  from  i  till  9  P.  M.  The  vener¬ 
able  Captain  of  the  Block  trudges  past  the  cells,  stroking 
his  flowing  white  beard,  and  profusely  swearing  at  the 
men.  But  the  prisoners  love  him :  he  frowns  upon  club¬ 
bing,  and  discourages  trouble-seeking  guards. 

Head  downward,  he  thumps  heavily  along  the  hall, 
on  his  first  round  of  the  bottom  ranges.  Presently  a 
voice  hails  him :  “Oh,  Mr.  Mitchell !  Come  here,  please.” 

“Damn  your  soul  t’  hell,”  the  officer  rages,  “don’t 
you  know  better  than  to  bother  me  when  I’m  counting, 
eh?  Shut  up  now,  God  damn  you.  You’ve  mixed  me 
all  up.” 

He  returns  to  the  front,  and  begins  to  count  again, 
pointing  his  finger  at  each  occupied  cell.  This  duty  over, 
and  his  report  filed,  he  returns  to  the  offending  prisoner. 

“What  t’  hell  do  you  want,  Butch?” 

“Mr.  Mitchell,  my  shoes  are  on  th’  bum.  I  am  walk¬ 
ing  on  my  socks.” 

“Where  th’  devil  d’  you  think  you’re  going,  anyhow? 
To  a  ball  ?” 

“Papa  Mitchell,  be  good  now,  won’t  you?”  the  youth 
coaxes. 

“Go  an’  take  a — thump  to  yourself,  will  you?” 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


261 

The  officer  walks  off,  heavy-browed  and  thoughtful, 
but  pauses  a  short  distance  from  the  cell,  to  hear  Butch 
mumbling  discontentedly.  The  Block  Captain  retraces 
his  steps,  and,  facing  the  boy,  storms  at  him: 

“What  did  you  say?  ‘Damn  the  old  skunk!’  that’s 
what  you  said,  eh?  You  come  on  out  of  there!” 

With  much  show  of  violence  he  inserts  the  key  into 
the  lock,  pulls  the  door  open  with  a  bang,  and  hails  a 
passing  guard: 

“Mr.  Kelly,  quick,  take  this  loafer  out  and  give  ’im — 
er — give  ’im  a  pair  of  shoes.” 

He  starts  down  the  range,  when  some  one  calls  from 
an  upper  tier: 

“Jimmy,  Jimmy!  Come  on  up  here!” 

“I’ll  jimmy  your  damn  carcass  for  you,”  the  old  man 
bellows,  angrily.  “Where  th’  hell  are  you?” 

“Here,  on  B,  20  B.  Right  over  you.” 

The  officer  steps  back  to  the  wall,  and  looks  up  to¬ 
ward  the  second  gallery. 

“What  in  th’  name  of  Jesus  Christ  do  you  want, 
Slim  ?” 

“Awful  cramps  in  me  stomach.  Get  me  some  cramp 
mixture,  Jim.” 

“Cramps  in  yer  head,  that’s  what  you’ve  got,  you 
big  bum  you.  Where  in  hell  did  you  get  your  cramp 
mixture,  when  you  was  spilling  around  in  a  freight  car, 
eh  ?” 

“I  got  booze  then,”  the  prisoner  retorts. 

“Like  hell  you  did!  You  were  damn  lucky  to  get 
a  louzy  hand-out  at  the  back  door,  you  ornery  pimple  on 
God’s  good  earth.” 

“Th’  hell  you  say!  The  hand-out  was  a  damn  sight 
better’n  th’  rotten  slush  I  get  here.  I  wouldn’t  have  a 
belly-ache,  if  it  wasn’t  for  th’  hogwash  they  gave  us 

to-day.” 


262  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Lay  down  now !  You  talk  like  a  horse’s  rosette.” 

It’s  the  old  man’s  favorite  expression,  in  his  rich 
vocabulary  of  picturesque  metaphor  and  simile.  But 
there  is  no  sting  in  the  brusque  speech,  no  rancor  in 
the  scowling  eyes.  On  the  way  to  the  desk  he  pauses 
to  whisper  to  the  block  trusty: 

“John,  you  better  run  down  to  the  dispensary,  an’ 
get  that  big  stiff  some  cramp  mixture.” 

Happening  to  glance  into  a  cell,  Mitchell  notices 
a  new  arrival,  a  bald-headed  man,  his  back  against  the 
door,  reading. 

“Hey  you !”  the  Block  Captain  shouts  at  him, 
startling  the  green  prisoner  off  his  chair,  “take  that  bald 
thing  out  of  there,  or  I’ll  run  you  in  for  indecent  ex¬ 
posure.” 

He  chuckles  at  the  man’s  fright,  like  a  boy  pleased 
with  a  naughty  prank,  and  ascends  the  upper  tiers. 

Duster  in  hand,  I  walk  along  the  range.  The  guards 
are  engaged  on  the  galleries,  examining  cells,  overseeing 
the  moving  of  the  newly-graded  inmates  to  the  South 
Wing,  or  chatting  with  the  trusties.  The  chairs  at  the 
officers’  desk  are  vacant.  Keeping  alert  watch  on  the 
rotunda  doors,  I  walk  from  cell  to  cell,  whiling  away 
the  afternoon  hours  in  conversation.  Johnny,  the 
friendly  runner,  loiters  at  the  desk,  now  and  then 
glancing  into  the  yard,  and  giving  me  “the  office”  by 
sharply  snapping  his  fingers,  to  warn  me  of  danger. 
I  ply  the  duster  diligently,  while  the  Deputy  and  his 
assistants  linger  about,  surrounded  by  the  trusties  im¬ 
parting  information  gathered  during  the  day.  Gradually 
they  disperse,  called  into  a  shop  where  a  fight  is  in 
progress,  or  nosing  about  the  kitchen  and  assiduously 
killing  time.  The  “coast  is  clear,”  and  I  return  to  pick 
up  the  thread  of  interrupted  conversation. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  CELL-HOUSE 


263 


But  the  subjects  of  common  interest  are  soon  ex¬ 
hausted.  The  oft-repeated  tirade  against  the  “rotten 
grub,”  the  “stale  punk,”  and  the  “hogwash” ;  vehement 
cursing  of  the  brutal  “screws,”  the  “stomach-robber  of 
a  Warden”  and  the  unreliability  of  his  promises ;  the 
exchange  of  gossip,  and  then  back  again  to  berating  the 
food  and  the  treatment.  Within  the  narrow  circle  runs 
the  interminable  tale,  colored  by  individual  temperament, 
intensified  by  the  length  of  sentence.  The  whole  is 
dominated  by  a  deep  sense  of  unmerited  suffering  and 
bitter  resentment,  often  breathing  dire  vengeance  against 
those  whom  they  consider  responsible  for  their  misfor¬ 
tune,  including  the  police,  the  prosecutor,  the  informer, 
the  witnesses,  and,  in  rare  instances,  the  trial  judge.  But 
as  the  longed-for  release  approaches,  the  note  of  hope 
and  liberty  rings  clearer,  stronger,  with  the  swelling 
undercurrent  of  frank  and  irrepressible  sex  desire. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  DEEDS  OF  THE  GOOD  TO  THE  EVIL 

The  new  arrivals  are  forlorn  and  dejected,  a  look  of 
fear  and  despair  in  their  eyes.  The  long-timers  among 
them  seem  dazed,  as  if  with  some  terrible  shock,  and  fall 
upon  the  bed  in  stupor-like  sleep.  The  boys  from  the 
reformatories,  some  mere  children  in  their  teens,  weep 
and  moan,  and  tremble  at  the  officer’s  footstep.  Only 
the  “repeaters”  and  old-timers  preserve  their  composure, 
scoff  at  the  “fresh  fish,”  nod  at  old  acquaintances,  and 
exchange  vulgar  pleasantries  with  the  guards.  But 
all  soon  grow  nervous  and  irritable,  and  stand  at  the 
door,  leaning  against  the  bars,  an  expression  of  bewil¬ 
dered  hopelessness  or  anxious  expectancy  on  their  faces. 
They  yearn  for  companionship,  and  are  pathetically  eager 
to  talk,  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  voice,  to  unbosom  their 
heavy  hearts. 

I  am  minutely  familiar  with  every  detail  of  their 
“case,”  their  life-history,  their  hopes  and  fears.  Through 
the  endless  weeks  and  months  on  the  range,  their  trage¬ 
dies  are  the  sole  subject  of  conversation.  A  glance  into 
the  mournful  faces,  pressed  close  against  the  bars,  and 
the  panorama  of  misery  rises  before  me, — the  cell-house 
grows  more  desolate,  bleaker,  the  air  gloomier  and  more 
depressing. 

There  is  Joe  Zappe,  his  bright  eyes  lighting  up  with 
a  faint  smile  as  I  pause  at  his  door.  “Hello,  Alick,”  he 
greets  me  in  his  sweet,  sad  voice.  He  knows  me  from 
the  jail.  His  father  and  elder  brother  have  been  ex- 

264 


THE  DEEDS  OF  THE  GOOD  TO  THE  EVIL  265 

ecuted,  and  he  commuted  to  life  because  of  youth.  He 
is  barely  eighteen,  but  his  hair  has  turned  white.  FI*e 
has  been  acting  queerly  of  late :  at  night  I  often  hear 
him  muttering  and  walking,  walking  incessantly  and 
muttering.  There  is  a  peculiar  look  about  his  eyes,  rest¬ 
less,  roving. 

“Alick,”  he  says,  suddenly,  ‘'me  wanna  tell  you 
sometink.  You  no  tell  nobody,  yes?” 

Assured  I’ll  keep  his  confidence,  he  begins  to  talk 
quickly,  excitedly: 

“Nobody  dere,  Alick?  No  scroo?  S-sh!  Lassa 
night  me  see  ma  broder.  Yes,  see  Gianni.  Jesu  Cristo, 
me  see  ma  poor  broder  in  da  cella  ’ere,  an’  den  me  fader 
he  come.  Broder  and  fader  day  stay  der,  on  da  floor, 
an  so  quieta,  lika  dead,  an’  den  dey  come  an  lay  downa 
in  ma  bed.  Oh,  Jesu  Christo,  me  so  fraida,  me  cry  an’ 
pray.  You  not  know  wat  it  mean?  No-o-o?  Me  tell 
you.  It  mean  me  die,  me  die  soon.” 

His  eyes  glow  with  a  sombre  fire,  a  hectic  flush  on 
his  face.  He  knits  his  brows,  as  I  essay  to  calm  him, 
and  continues  hurriedly : 

“S-sh!  Waita  till  me  tell  you  all.  You  know  watta 
for  ma  fader  an’  Gianni  come  outa  da  grave?  Me  tell 
you.  Dey  calla  for  ravange,  ’cause  dey  innocente.  Me 
tell  you  trut.  See,  we  all  worka  in  da  mine,  da  coal 
mine,  me  an’  my  fader  an’  Gianni.  All  worka  hard  an’ 
mek  one  dollar,  maybe  dollar  quater  da  day.  An’  bigga 
American  man,  him  come  an’  boder  ma  fader.  Ma  fader 
him  no  wanna  trouble ;  him  old  man,  no  boder  nobody. 
An’  da  American  man  him  maka  two  dollars  an  mebbe 
two  fifty  da  day  an’  him  boder  my  fader,  all  da  time, 
boder  ’im  an’  kick  ’im  to  da  legs,  an’  steal  ma  broder’s 
shovel,  an’  hide  fader’s  hat,  an’  maka  trouble  for  ma 
countrymen,  an’  call  us  ‘dirty  dagoes.’  An’  one  day  him 
an’  two  Arish  dey  all  drunk,  an’  smash  ma  fader,  an’ 


266  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


American  man  an  Arish  holler,  ‘Dago  s - :  b - fraida 

fight,’  an’  da  American  man  him  take  a  bigga  pickax 
an’  wanna  hit  ma  fader,  an’  ma  fader  him  run,  an’  me 
an’  ma  broder  an’  friend  we  fight,  an’  American  man 
him  fall,  an’  we  all  go  way  home.  Den  p’lice  come  an’ 
arresta  me  an’  fader  an’  broder,  an’  say  we  killa  Ameri¬ 
can  man.  Me  an’  ma  broder  no  use  knife,  mebbe  ma 
friend  do.  Me  no  know;  him  no  arresta;  him  go  home  in 
Italia.  Ma  fader  an’  broder  dey  save  nineda-sev’n  dol¬ 
lar,  an’  me  save  twenda-fife,  an’  gotta  laiyer.  Him  no 
good,  an’  no  talk  much  in  court.  We  poor  men,  no  can 
take  case  in  oder  court,  an’  fader  him  hang,  an’  Gianni 
hang,  an’  me  get  life.  Ma  fader  an’  broder  dey  come 
lassa  night  from  da  grave,  cause  dey  innocente  an’  wanna 
ravange,  an’  me  gotta  mek  ravange,  me  no  rest,  gotta — ” 

The  sharp  snapping  of  Johnny,  the  runner,  warns 
me  of  danger,  and  I  hastily  leave. 

The  melancholy  figures  line  the  doors  as  I  walk  up 
and  down  the  hall.  The  blanched  faces  peer  wistfully 
through  the  bars,  or  lean  dejectedly  against  the  wall,  a 
vacant  stare  in  the  dim  eyes.  Each  calls  to  mind  the 
stories  of  misery  and  distress,  the  scenes  of  brutality 
and  torture  I  witness  in  the  prison  house.  Like  ghastly 
nightmares,  the  shadows  pass  before  me.  There  is 
“Silent  Nick,”  restlessly  pacing  his  cage,  never  ceasing, 
his  lips  sealed  in  brutish  muteness.  For  three  years  he 
has  not  left  the  cell,  nor  uttered  a  word.  The  stolid 
features  are  cut  and  bleeding.  Last  night  he  had  at¬ 
tempted  suicide,  and  the  guards  beat  him,  and  left  him 
unconscious  on  the  floor. 

There  is  “Crazy  Hunkie,”  the  Austrian.  Every 
morning,  as  the  officer  unlocks  his  door  to  hand  in 
the  loaf  of  bread,  he  makes  a  wild  dash  for  the  yard, 
shouting,  “Me  wife!  Where’s  me  wife?”  He  rushes 


THE  DEEDS  OF  THE  GOOD  TO  THE  EVIL  267 


toward  the  front,  and  desperately  grabs  the  door  handle. 
The  double  iron  gate  is  securely  locked.  A  look  of 
blank  amazement  on  his  face,  he  slowly  returns  to  the 
cell.  The  guards  await  him  with  malicious  smile.  Sud¬ 
denly  they  rush  upon  him,  blackjacks  in  hand.  “Me 
wife,  me  seen  her !”  the  Austrian  cries.  The  blood  gush¬ 
ing  from  his  mouth  and  nose,  they  kick  him  into  the 
cell.  “Me  wife  waiting  in  de  yard,”  he  moans. 

In  the  next  cell  is  Tommy  Wellman;  adjoining  him, 
Jim  Grant.  They  are  boys  recently  transferred  from  the 
reformatory.  They  cower  in  the  corner,  in  terror  of 
the  scene.  With  tearful  eyes,  they  relate  their  story. 
Orphans  in  the  slums  of  Allegheny,  they  had  been  sent 
to  the  reform  school  at  Morganza,  for  snatching  fruit 
off  a  corner  stand.  Maltreated  and  beaten,  they  sought 
to  escape.  Childishly  they  set  fire  to  the  dormitory,  al¬ 
most  in  sight  of  the  keepers.  “I  says  to  me  chum,  says 
I,”  Tommy  narrates  with  boyish  glee,  “  ‘Kid/  says  I, 
‘let’s  fire  de  louzy  joint;  dere’ll  be  lots  of  fun,  and  we’ll 
make  our  get-away  in  de’  ’citement.’  ”  They  were  taken 
to  court,  and  the  good  judge  sentenced  them  to  five  years 
to  the  penitentiary.  “Glad  to  get  out  of  dat  dump,” 
Tommy  comments;  “it  was  jest  fierce.  Dey  paddled  an’ 
starved  us  someting’  tumble.” 

In  the  basket  cell,  a  young  colored  man  grovels  on 
the  floor.  It  is  Lancaster,  Number  8523.  He  was  serv¬ 
ing  seven  years,  and  working  every  day  in  the  mat  shop. 
Slowly  the  days  passed,  and  at  last  the  longed-for  hour 
of  release  arrived.  But  Lancaster  was  not  discharged. 
He  was  kept  at  his  task,  the  Warden  informing  him 
that  he  had  lost  six  months  of  his  “good  time”  for  de¬ 
fective  work.  The  light-hearted  negro  grew  sullen  and 
morose.  Often  the  silence  of  the  cell-house  was  pierced 
by  his  anguished  cry  in  the  night,  “My  time’s  up,  time’s 
up.  I  want  to  go  home.”  The  guards  would  take  him 


268  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


from  the  cell,  and  place  him  in  the  dungeon.  One  morn¬ 
ing,  in  a  fit  of  frenzy,  he  attacked  Captain  McVey,  the 
officer  of  the  shop.  The  Captain  received  a  slight  scratch 
on  the  neck,  and  Lancaster  was  kept  chained  to  the 
wall  of  the  dungeon  for  ten  days.  He  returned  to  the 
cell,  a  driveling  imbecile.  The  next  day  they  dressed 
him  in  his  citizen  clothes,  Lancaster  mumbling,  “Going 
home,  going  home.”  The  Warden  and  several  officers 
accompanied  him  to  court,  on  the  way  coaching  the 
poor  idiot  to  answer  “yes”  to  the  question,  “Do  you 
plead  guilty?”  He  received  seven  years,  the  extreme 
penalty  of  the  law,  for  the  “attempted  murder  of  a 
keeper.”  They  brought  him  back  to  the  prison,  and 
locked  him  up  in  a  basket  cell,  the  barred  door  covered 
with  a  wire  screen  that  almost  entirely  excludes  light 
and  air.  He  receives  no  medical  attention,  and  is  fed 
on  a  bread-and-water  diet. 

The  witless  negro  crawls  on  the  floor,  unwashed 
and  unkempt,  scratching  with  his  nails  fantastic  shapes 
on  the  stone,  and  babbling  stupidly,  “Going,  Jesus  going 
to  Jerusalem.  See,  he  rides  the  holy  ass;  he’s  going  to 
his  father’s  home.  Going  home,  going  home.”  As  I 
pass  he  looks  up,  perplexed  wonder  on  his  face;  his 
brows  meet  in  a  painful  attempt  to  collect  his  wander¬ 
ing  thoughts,  and  he  drawls  with  pathetic  sing-song, 
“Going  home,  going  home ;  Jesus  going  to  father’s  home.” 
The  guards  raise  their  hands  to  their  nostrils  as  they 
approach  the  cell :  the  poor  imbecile  evacuates  on  the 
table,  the  chair,  and  the  floor.  Twice  a  month  he  is 
taken  to  the  bathroom,  his  clothes  are  stripped,  and  the 
hose  is  turned  on  the  crazy  negro. 

The  cell  of  “Little  Sammy”  is  vacant.  He  was  Num¬ 
ber  9521,  a  young  man  from  Altoona.  I  knew  him  quite 
well.  He  was  a  kind  boy  and  a  diligent  worker;  but 


THE  DEEDS  OF  THE  GOOD  TO  THE  EVIL  269 


now  and  then  he  would  fall  into  a  fit  of  melancholy. 
He  would  then  sit  motionless  on  the  chair,  a  blank  stare 
on  his  face,  neglecting  food  and  work.  These  spells 
generally  lasted  two  or  three  days,  Sammy  refusing  to 
leave  the  cell.  Old  Jimmy  McPane,  the  dead  Deputy, 
on  such  occasions  commanded  the  prisoner  to  the  shop, 
while  Sammy  sat  and  stared  in  a  daze.  McPane  would 
order  the  ‘'stubborn  kid”  to  the  dungeon,  and  every  time 
Sammy  got  his  “head  workiir,”  he  was  dragged,  silent 
and  motionless,  to  the  cellar.  The  new  Deputy  has  fol¬ 
lowed  the  established  practice,  and  last  evening,  at 
“music  hour,”  while  the  men  were  scraping  their  instru¬ 
ments,  “Little  Sammy”  was  found  on  the  floor  of  the 
cell,  his  throat  hacked  from  ear  to  ear. 

At  the  Coroner’s  inquest  the  Warden  testified  that 
the  boy  was  considered  mentally  defective;  that  he  was 
therefore  excused  from  work,  and  never  punished. 

Returning  to  my  cell  in  the  evening,  my  gaze  meets 
the  printed  rules  on  the  wall : 

“The  prison  authorities  desire  to  treat  every  prisoner 
in  their  charge  with  humanity  and  kindness.  *  *  *  The 
aim  of  all  prison  discipline  is,  by  enforcing  the  law,  to 
restrain  the  evil  and  to  protect  the  innocent  from  further 
harm ;  to  so  apply  the  law  upon  the  criminal  as  to  pro¬ 
duce  a  cure  from  his  moral  infirmities,  by  calling  out 
the  better  principles  of  his  nature.” 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL 

I 

The  comparative  freedom  of  the  range  familiarizes 
me  with  the  workings  of  the  institution,  and  brings  me 
in  close  contact  with  the  authorities.  The  personnel  of 
the  guards  is  of  very  inferior  character.  I  find  their 
average  intelligence  considerably  lower  than  that  of  the 
inmates.  Especially  does  the  element  recruited  from  the 
police  and  the  detective  service  lack  sympathy  with  the 
unfortunates  in  their  charge.  They  are  mostly  men  dis¬ 
charged  from  city  employment  because  of  habitual 
drunkenness,  or  flagrant  brutality  and  corruption.  Their 
attitude  toward  the  prisoners  is  summed  up  in  coercion 
and  suppression.  They  look  upon  the  men  as  will-less 
objects  of  iron-handed  discipline,  exact  unquestioning 
obedience  and  absolute  submissiveness  to  peremptory 
whims,  and  harbor  personal  animosity  toward  the 
less  pliant.  The  more  intelligent  among  the  officers 
scorn  inferior  duties,  and  crave  advancement.  The 
authority  and- remuneration  of  a  Deputy  Wardenship  is 
alluring  to  them,  and  every  keeper  considers  himself  the 
fittest  for  the  vacancy.  But  the  coveted  prize  is  awarded 
to  the  guard  most  feared  by  the  inmates,  and  most  sub¬ 
servient  to  the  Warden, — a  direct  incitement  to  brutality, 
on  the  one  hand,  to  sycophancy,  on  the  other. 

A  number  of  the  officers  are  veterans  of  the  Civil 

270 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL 


27 1 


War;  several  among  them  had  suffered  incarceration  in 
Libby  Prison.  These  often  manifest  a  more  sympa¬ 
thetic  spirit.  The  great  majority  of  the  keepers,  how¬ 
ever,  have  been  employed  in  the  penitentiary  from  fifteen 
to  twenty-five  years ;  some  even  for  a  longer  period,  like 
Officer  Stewart,  who  has  been  a  guard  for  forty  years. 
This  element  is  unspeakably  callous  and  cruel.  The 
prisoners  discuss  among  themselves  the  ages  of  the  old 
guards,  and  speculate  on  the  days  allotted  them.  The 
death  of  one  of  them  is  hailed  with  joy:  seldom  they 
are  discharged;  still  more  seldom  do  they  resign. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  officer  sheds  hope  into  the 
dismal  lives.  New  guards — unless  drafted  from  the 
police  bureau- — are  almost  without  exception  lenient  and 
forbearing,  often  exceedingly  humane.  The  inmates  vie 
with  each  other  in  showing  complaisance  to  the  “can¬ 
didate.”  It  is  a  point  of  honor  in  their  unwritten  ethics 
to  “treat  him  white.”  They  frown  upon  the  fellow-con¬ 
vict  who  seeks  to  take  advantage  of  the  “green  screw,” 
by  misusing  his  kindness  or  exploiting  his  ignorance  of 
the  prison  rules.  But  the  older  officers  secretly  resent 
the  infusion  of  new  blood.  They  strive  to  discourage 
the  applicant  by  exaggerating  the  dangers  of  the  posi¬ 
tion,  and  depreciating  its  financial  desirability  for  an 
ambitious  young  man;  they  impress  upon  him  the  War¬ 
den’s  unfairness  to  the  guards,  and  the  lack  of  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  advancement.  Often  they  dissuade  the  new 
man,  and  he  disappears  from  the  prison  horizon.  But  if 
he  persists  in  remaining,  the  old  keepers  expostulate 
with  him,  in  pretended  friendliness,  upon  his  leniency, 
chide  him  for  a  “soft-hearted  tenderfoot,”  and  improve 
every  opportunity  to  initiate  him  into  the  practices  of 
brutality.  The  system  is  known  in  the  prison  as  “break¬ 
ing  in” :  the  new  man  is  constantly  drafted  in  the  “club¬ 
bing  squad,”  the  older  officers  setting  the  example  of 


272  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


cruelty.  Refusal  to  participate  signifies  insubordination 
to  his  superiors  and  the  shirking  of  routine  duty,  and 
results  in  immediate  discharge.  But  such  instances  are 
extremely  rare.  Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  officer, 
Mr.  Stewart,  it  happened  only  once,  and  the  man  was 
sickly. 

Slowly  the  poison  is  instilled  into  the  new  guard. 
Within  a  short  time  the  prisoners  notice  the  first  signs 
of  change:  he  grows  less  tolerant  and  chummy,  more 
irritated  and  distant.  Presently  he  feels  himself  the 
object  of  espionage  by  the  favorite  trusties  of  his  fellow- 
officers.  In  some  mysterious  manner,  the  Warden  is 
aware  of  his  every  step,  berating  him  for  speaking  un¬ 
duly  long  to  this  prisoner,  or  for  giving  another  half  a 
banana, — the  remnant  of  his  lunch.  In  a  moment  of 
commiseration  and  pity,  the  officer  is  moved  by  the  tear¬ 
ful  pleadings  of  misery  to  carry  a  message  to  the  sick 
wife  or  child  of  a  prisoner.  The  latter  confides  the 
secret  to  some  friend,  or  carelessly  brags  of  his  intimacy 
with  the  guard,  and  soon  the  keeper  faces  the  Warden 
“on  charges,”  and  is  deprived  of  a  month’s  pay.  Re¬ 
peated  misplacement  of  confidence,  occasional  betrayal 
by  a  prisoner  seeking  the  good  graces  of  the  Warden, 
and  the  new  officer  grows  embittered  against  the  species 
“convict.”  The  instinct  of  self-preservation,  harassed 
and  menaced  on  every  side,  becomes  more  assertive,  and 
the  guard  is  soon  drawn  into  the  vortex  of  the  “system.” 

II 

Daily  I  behold  the  machinery  at  work,  grinding  and 
pulverizing,  brutalizing  the  officers,  dehumanizing  the 
inmates.  Far  removed  from  the  strife  and  struggle  of 
the  larger  world,  I  yet  witness  its  miniature  replica,  more 
agonizing  and  merciless  within  the  walls.  A  perfected 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL 


273 


model  it  is,  this  prison  life,  with  its  apparent  uniformity 
and  dull  passivity.  But  beneath  the  torpid  surface 
smolder  the  fires  of  being,  now  crackling  faintly  under 
a  dun  smothering  smoke,  now  blazing  forth  with  the 
ruthlessness  of  despair.  Hidden  by  the  veil  of  discipline 
rages  the  struggle  of  fiercely  contending  wills,  and  in¬ 
tricate  meshes  are  woven  in  the  quagmire  of  darkness 
and  suppression. 

Intrigue  and  counter  plot,  violence  and  corruption, 
are  rampant  in  cell-house  and  shop.  The  prisoners  spy 
upon  each  other,  and  in  turn  upon  the  officers.  The  lat¬ 
ter  encourage  the  trusties  in  unearthing  the  secret  do¬ 
ings  of  the  inmates,  and  the  stools  enviously  compete 
with  each  other  in  supplying  information  to  the  keepers. 
Often  they  deliberately  inveigle  the  trustful  prisoner 
into  a  fake  plot  to  escape,  help  and  encourage  him  in  the 
preparations,  and  at  the  critical  moment  denounce  him 
to  the  authorities.  The  luckless  man  is  severely  pun¬ 
ished,  usually  remaining  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  in¬ 
trigue.  The  provocateur  is  rewarded  with  greater  lib¬ 
erty  and  special  privileges.  Frequently  his  treachery 
proves  the  stepping-stone  to  freedom,  aided  by  the  War¬ 
den’s  official  recommendation  of  the  “model  prisoner” 
to  the  State  Board  of  Pardons. 

The  stools  and  the  trusties  are  an  essential  element 
in  the  government  of  the  prison.  With  rare  exception, 
every  officer  has  one  or  more  on  his  staff.  They  assist  , 
him  in  his  duties,  perform  most  of  his  work,  and  make 
out  the  reports  for  the  illiterate  guards.  Occasionally 
they  are  even  called  upon  to  help  the  “clubbing  squad.” 
The  more  intelligent  stools  enjoy  the  confidence  of  the 
Deputy  and  his  assistants,  and  thence  advance  to  the 
favor  of  the  Warden.  The  latter  places  more  reliance 
upon  his  favorite  trusties  than  upon  the  guards.  “I 
have  about  a  hundred  paid  officers  to  keep  watch  over 


274  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  prisoners,”  the  Warden  informs  new  applicants,  “and 
two  hundred  volunteers  to  watch  both.”  The  “volun¬ 
teers”  are  vested  with  unofficial  authority,  often  exceed¬ 
ing  that  of  the  inferior  officers.  They  invariably  secure 
the  sinecures  of  the  prison,  involving  little  work  and 
affording  opportunity  for  espionage.  They  are  “run¬ 
ners,”  “messengers,”  yard  and  office  men. 

Other  desirable  positions,  clerkships  and  the  like,  are 
awarded  to  influential  prisoners,  such  as  bankers,  em¬ 
bezzlers,  and  boodlers.  These  are  known  in  the  insti¬ 
tution  as  holding  “political  jobs.”  Together  with  the 
stools  they  are  scorned  by  the  initiated  prisoners  as  “the 
pets.” 


The  professional  craftiness  of  the  “con  man”  stands 
him  in  good  stead  in  the  prison.  A  shrewd  judge  of 
human  nature,  quick-witted  and  self-confident,  he  applies 
the  practiced  cunning  of  his  vocation  to  secure  whatever 
privileges  and  perquisites  the  institution  affords.  His 
evident  intelligence  and  aplomb  powerfully  impress  the 
guards;  his  well-affected  deference  to  authority  flatters 
them.  They  are  awed  by  his  wonderful  facility  of  ex¬ 
pression,  and  great  attainments  in  the  mysterious  world 
of  baccarat  and  confidence  games.  At  heart  they  envy 
the  high  priest  of  “easy  money,”  and  are  proud  to  be¬ 
friend  him  in  his  need.  The  officers  exert  themselves  to 
please  him,  secure  light  work  for  him,  and  surreptitiously 
favor  him  with  delicacies  and  even  money.  His  game 
is  won.  The  “con”  has  now  secured  the  friendship  and 
confidence  of  his  keepers,  and  will  continue  to  exploit 
them  by  pretended  warm  interest  in  their  physical  com¬ 
plaints,  their  family  troubles,  and  their  whispered  ambi¬ 
tion  of  promotion  and  fear  of  the  Warden’s  discrimina¬ 
tion. 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL 


275 


The  more  intelligent  officers  are  the  easiest  vic¬ 
tims  of  his  wiles.  But  even  the  higher  officials,  more 
difficult  to  approach,  do  not  escape  the  confidence  man. 
His  “business”  has  perfected  his  sense  of  orientation ;  he 
quickly  rends  the  veil  of  appearance,  and  scans  the  under¬ 
currents.  He  frets  at  his  imprisonment,  and  hints  at 
high  social  connections.  His  real  identity  is  a  great 
secret:  he  wishes  to  save  his  wealthy  relatives  from 
public  disgrace.  A  careless  slip  of  the  tongue  betrays 
his  college  education.  With  a  deprecating  nod  he  con¬ 
fesses  that  his  father  is  a  State  Senator;  he  is  the  only 
black  sheep  in  his  family;  yet  they  are  “good”  to  him, 
and  will  not  disown  him.  But  he  must  not  bring  notori¬ 
ety  upon  them. 

Eager  for  special  privileges  and  the  liberty  of  the 
trusties,  or  fearful  of  punishment,  the  “con  man”  ma¬ 
tures  his  campaign.  He  writes  a  note  to  a  fellow-pris¬ 
oner.  With  much  detail  and  thorough  knowledge  of 
prison  conditions,  he  exposes  all  the  “ins  and  outs”  of 
the  institution.  In  elegant  English  he  criticizes  the 
management,  dwells  upon  the  ignorance  and  brutality  of 
the  guards,  and  charges  the  Warden  and  the  Board  of 
Prison  Inspectors  with  graft,  individually  and  collec¬ 
tively.  He  denounces  the  Warden  as  a  stomach-robber 
of  poor  unfortunates:  the  counties  pay  from  twenty-five 
to  thirty  cents  per  day  for  each  inmate ;  the  Federal  Gov¬ 
ernment,  for  its  quota  of  men,  fifty  cents  per  person. 
Why  are  the  prisoners  given  qualitatively  and  quantita¬ 
tively  inadequate  food?  he  demands.  Does  not  the 
State  appropriate  thousands  of  dollars  for  the  sup¬ 
port  of  the  penitentiary,  besides  the  money  received  from 
the  counties? — With  keen  scalpel  the  “con  man”  dis¬ 
sects  the  anatomy  of  the  institution.  One  by  one  he 
analyzes  the  industries,  showing  the  most  intimate 
knowledge.  The  hosiery  department  produces  so  and 


276  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


so  many  dozen  of  stockings  per  day.  They  are  not 
stamped  “convict-made,”  as  the  law  requires.  The  labels 
attached  are  misleading,  and  calculated  to  decoy  the 
innocent  buyer.  The  character  of  the  product  in  the 
several  mat  shops  is  similarly  an  infraction  of  the 
statutes  of  the  great  State  of  Pennsylvania  for  the  pro¬ 
tection  of  free  labor.  The  broom  shop  is  leased  by  con¬ 
tract  to  a  firm  of  manufacturers  known  as  Lang 
Brothers :  the  law  expressly  forbids  contract  labor  in 
prisons.  The  stamp  “convict-made”  on  the  brooms  is 
pasted  over  with  a  label,  concealing  the  source  of  manu¬ 
facture. 

Thus  the  “con  man”  runs  on  in  his  note.  With 
much  show  of  secrecy  he  entrusts  it  to  a  notorious  stool, 
for  delivery  to  a  friend.  Soon  the  writer  is  called  before 
the  Warden.  In  the  latter’s  hands  is  the  note.  The 
offender  smiles  complacently.  He  is  aware  the  authori¬ 
ties  are  terrorized  by  the  disclosure  of  such  intimate 
familiarity  with  the  secrets  of  the  prison  house,  in  the 
possession  of  an  intelligent,  possibly  well-connected  man. 
He  must  be  propitiated  at  all  cost.  The  ‘“con  man”  joins 
the  “politicians.” 

The  ingenuity  of  imprisoned  intelligence  treads 
devious  paths,  all  leading  to  the  highway  of  enlarged 
liberty  and  privilege.  The  “old-timer,”  veteran  of  oft- 
repeated  experience,  easily  avoids  hard  labor.  He  has 
many  friends  in  the  prison,  is  familiar  with  the  keepers, 
and  is  welcomed  by  them  like  a  prodigal  coming  home. 
The  officers  are  glad  to  renew  the  old  acquaintance  and 
talk  over  old  times.  It  brings  interest  into  their 
tedious  existence,  often  as  gray  and  monotonous  as  the 
prisoner’s. 

The  seasoned  “yeggman,”  constitutionally  and  on 
principle  opposed  to  toil,  rarely  works.  Generally  suffer- 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL  277 

/ 

ing  a  comparatively  short  sentence,  he  looks  upon  his 
imprisonment  as,  in  a  measure,  a  rest-cure  from  the  wear 
and  tear  of  tramp  life.  Above  average  intelligence,  he 
scorns  work  in  general,  prison  labor  in  particular.  He 
avoids  it  with  unstinted  expense  of  energy  and  effort. 
As  a  last  resort,  he  plays  the  “jigger”  card,  producing 
an  artificial  wound  on  leg  or  arm,  having  every  appear¬ 
ance  of  syphilitic  excrescence.  He  pretends  to  be  fright¬ 
ened  by  the  infection,  and  prevails  upon  the  physician 
to  examine  him.  The  doctor  wonders  at  the  wound, 
closely  resembling  the  dreaded  disease.  “Ever  had 
syphilis  ?”  he  demands.  The  prisoner  protests  indig¬ 
nantly.  “Perhaps  in  the  family?”  the  medicus  suggests. 
The  patient  looks  diffident,  blushes,  cries,  “No,  never!” 
and  assumes  a  guilty  look.  The  doctor  is  now  convinced 
the  prisoner  is  a  victim  of  syphilis.  The  man  is  “ex¬ 
cused”  from  work,  indefinitely. 

The  wily  yegg,  now  a  patient,  secures  a  “snap”  in  the 
yard,  and  adapts  prison  conditions  to  his  habits  of  life. 
He  sedulously  courts  the  friendship  of  some  young  in¬ 
mate,  and  wins  his  admiration  by  “ghost  stories”  of  great 
daring  and  cunning.  He  puts  the  boy  “next  to  de 
ropes,”  and  constitutes  himself  his  protector  against  the 
abuse  of  the  guards  and  the  advances  of  other  prisoners. 
He  guides  the  youth’s  steps  through  the  maze  of  conflict¬ 
ing  rules,  and  finally  initiates  him  into  the  “higher  wis¬ 
dom”  of  “de  road.” 

The  path  of  the  “gun”  is  smoothed  by  his  colleagues 
in  the  prison.  Even  before  his  arrival,  the  esprit  de  corps 
of  the  “profession”  is  at  work,  securing  a  soft  berth 
for  the  expected  friend.  If  noted  for  success  and  skill, 
he  enjoys  the  respect  of  the  officers,  and  the  admiration 
of  a  retinue  of  aspiring  young  crooks,  of  lesser  experi¬ 
ence  and  reputation.  With  conscious  superiority  he 


278  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


instructs  them  in  the  finesse  of  his  trade,  practices  them 
in  nimble-fingered  ‘'touches/’  and  imbues  them  with  the 
philosophy  of  the  plenitude  of  “suckers,”  whom  the 
good  God  has  put  upon  the  earth  to  afford  the  thief  an 
“honest  living.”  His  sentence  nearing  completion,  the 
“gun”  grows  thoughtful,  carefully  scans  the  papers, 
forms  plans  for  his  first  “job,”  arranges  dates  with  his 
“partners,”  and  gathers  messages  for  their  “moll  buz¬ 
zers.”*  He  is  gravely  concerned  with  the  somewhat 
roughened  condition  of  his  hands,  and  the  possible  dull¬ 
ing  of  his  sensitive  fingers.  He  maneuvers,  generally 
successfully,  for  lighter  work,  to  “limber  up  a  bit,”  “jol¬ 
lies”  the  officers  and  cajoles  the  Warden  for  new  shoes, 
made  to  measure  in  the  local  shops,  and  insists  on  the 
ten-dollar  allowance  to  prisoners  received  from  counties 
outside  of  Allegheny.f  He  argues  the  need  of  money 
“to  leave  the  State.”  Often  he  does  leave.  More  fre¬ 
quently  a  number  of  charges  against  the  man  are  held 
in  reserve  by  the  police,  and  he  is  arrested  at  the  gate 
by  detectives  who  have  been  previously  notified  by  the 
prison  authorities. 

The  great  bulk  of  the  inmates,  accidental  and  occa¬ 
sional  offenders  direct  from  the  field,  factory,  and  mine, 
plod  along  in  the  shops,  in  sullen  misery  and  dread.  Day 
in,  day  out,  year  after  year,  they  drudge  at  the  monoto¬ 
nous  work,  dully  wondering  at  the  numerous  trusties 
idling  about,  while  their  own  heavy  tasks  are  constantly 
increased.  From  cell  to  shop  and  back  again,  always 
under  the  stern  eyes  of  the  guards,  their  days  drag  in 
deadening  toil.  In  mute  bewilderment  they  receive  con- 

*  Women  thieves. 

t  Upon  their  discharge,  prisoners  tried  and  convicted  in  the 
County  of  Allegheny — in  which  the  Western  Penitentiary  is 
located — receive  only  five  dollars. 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL 


279 


tradictory  orders,  unaware  of  the  secret  antagonisms 
between  the  officials.  They  are  surprised  at  the  new 
rule  making  attendance  at  religious  service  obligatory; 
and  again  at  the  succeeding  order  (the  desired  appro¬ 
priation  for  a  new  chapel  having  been  secured)  making 
church-going  optional.  They  are  astonished  at  the  sud¬ 
den  disappearance  of  the  considerate  and  gentle  guard, 
Byers,  and  anxiously  hope  for  his  return,  not  knowing 
that  the  officer  who  discouraged  the  underhand  methods 
of  the  trusties  fell  a  victim  to  their  cabal. 

Ill 

Occasionally  a  bolder  spirit  grumbles  at  the  exasper¬ 
ating  partiality.  Released  from  punishment,  he  patiently 
awaits  an  opportunity  to  complain  to  the  Warden  of 
his  unjust  treatment.  Weeks  pass.  At  last  the  Captain 
visits  the  shop.  A  propitious  moment!  The  carefully 
trimmed  beard  frames  the  stern  face  in  benevolent  white, 
mellowing  the  hard  features  and  lending  dignity  to  his 
appearance.  His  eyes  brighten  with  peculiar  brilliancy 
as  he  slowly  begins  to  stroke  his  chin,  and  then,  almost 
imperceptibly,  presses  his  fingers  to  his  lips.  As  he 
passes  through  the  shop,  the  prisoner  raises  his  hand. 
“What  is  it?”  the  Warden  inquires,  a  pleasant  smile  on 
his  face.  The  man  relates  his  grievance  with  nervous 
eagerness.  “Oh,  well,”  the  Captain  claps  him  on  the 
shoulder,  “perhaps  a  mistake;  an  unfortunate  mistake. 
But,  then,  you  might  have  done  something  at  another 
time,  and  not  been  punished.”  He  laughs  merrily  at 
his  witticism.  “It’s  so  long  ago,  anyhow;  we’ll  forget 
it,”  and  he  passes  on. 

But  if  the  Captain  is  in  a  different  mood,  his  features 
harden,  the  stern  eyes  scowl,  and  he  says  in  his  clear, 
sharp  tones:  “State  your  grievance  in  writing,  on  the 


280  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


printed  slip  which  the  officer  will  give  you.”  The  writ¬ 
ten  complaint,  deposited  in  the  mail-box,  finally  reaches 
the  Chaplain,  and  is  forwarded  by  him  to  the  Warden’s 
office.  There  the  Deputy  and  the  Assistant  Deputy  read 
and  classify  the  slips,  placing  some  on  the  Captain’s  file 
and  throwing  others  into  the  waste  basket,  according  as 
the  accusation  is  directed  against  a  friendly  or  an  un¬ 
friendly  brother  officer.  Months  pass  before  the  prisoner 
is  called  for  “a  hearing.”  By  that  time  he  very  likely 
has  a  more  serious  charge  against  the  guard,  who  now 
persecutes  the  “kicker.”  But  the  new  complaint  has 
not  yet  been  “filed,”  and  therefore  the  hearing  is  post¬ 
poned.  Not  infrequently  men  are  called  for  a  hearing, 
who  have  been  discharged,  or  died  since  making  the 
complaint. 

The  persevering  prisoner,  however,  unable  to  receive 
satisfaction  from  the  Warden,  sends  a  written  com¬ 
plaint  to  some  member  of  the  highest  authority  in  the 
penitentiary — the  Board  of  Inspectors.  These  are  sup¬ 
posed  to  meet  monthly  to  consider  the  affairs  of  the 
institution,  visit  the  inmates,  and  minister  to  their  moral 
needs.  The  complainant  waits,  mails  several  more  slips, 
and  wonders  why  he  receives  no  audience  with  the 
Inspectors.  But  the  latter  remain  invisible,  some  not 
visiting  the  penitentiary  within  a  year.  Only  the  Secre¬ 
tary  of  the  Board,  Mr.  Reed,  a  wealthy  jeweler  of  Pitts¬ 
burgh,  occasionally  puts  in  an  appearance.  Tall  and  lean, 
immaculate  and  trim,  he  exhales  an  atmosphere  of 
sanctimoniousness.  He  walks  leisurely  through  the 
block,  passes  a  cell  with  a  lithograph  of  Christ  on  the 
wall,  and  pauses.  His  hands  folded,  eyes  turned  up¬ 
wards,  lips  slightly  parted  in  silent  prayer,  he  inquires 
of  the  rangeman : 

“Whose  cell  is  this?” 

“A  1108,  Mr.  Reed,”  the  prisoner  informs  him. 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL  281 

It  is  the  cell  of  Jasper,  the  colored  trusty,  chief  stool 
of  the  prison. 

“He  is  a  good  man,  a  good  man,  God  bless  him,” 
the  Inspector  says,  a  quaver  in  his  voice. 

He  steps  into  the  cell,  puts  on  his  gloves,  and  care¬ 
fully  adjusts  the  little  looking-glass  and  the  rules,  hang¬ 
ing  awry  on  the  wall.  “It  offends  my  eye,”  he  smiles 
at  the  attending  rangeman,  “they  don’t  hang  straight.” 

Young  Tommy,  in  the  adjoining  cell,  calls  out:  “Mr. 
Officer,  please.” 

The  Inspector  steps  forward.  “This  is  Inspector 
Reed,”  he  corrects  the  boy.  “What  is  it  you  wish  ?” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Inspector,  I’ve  been  askin’  t’  see  you  a  long 
time.  I  wanted — ” 

“You  should  have  sent  me  a  slip.  Have  you  a  copy 
of  the  rules  in  the  cell,  my  man?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Can  you  read?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“Poor  boy,  did  you  never  go  to  school?” 

“No,  sir.  Me  moder  died  when  I  was  a  kid.  Dey 
put  me  in  de  orphan  an’  den  in  de  ref.” 

“And  your  father?” 

“I  had  no  fader.  Moder  always  said  he  ran  away 
before  I  was  born’d.” 

“They  have  schools  in  the  orphan  asylum.  Also  in 
the  reformatory,  I  believe.” 

“Yep.  But  dey  keeps  me  most  o’  de  time  in  punish¬ 
ment.  I  didn’  care  fer  de  school,  nohow.” 

“You  were  a  bad  boy.  How  old  are  you  now?” 

“Sev’nteen.” 

“What  is  your  name?” 

“Tommy  Wellman.” 

“From  Pittsburgh?” 


282  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Allegheny.  Me  moder  use’ter  live  on  de  hill,  near 
dis  ’ere  dump.” 

“What  did  you  wish  to  see  me  about?” 

“I  can’t  stand  de  cell,  Mr.  Inspector.  Please  let  me 
have  some  work.” 

“Are  you  locked  up  ‘for  cause’?” 

“I  smashed  a  guy  in  de  jaw  fer  callin’  me  names.” 

“Don’t  you  know  it’s  wrong  to  fight,  my  little  man?” 

“He  said  me  moder  was  a  bitch,  God  damn  his — ” 

“Don’t!  Don’t  swear!  Never  take  the  holy  name 
in  vain.  It’s  a  great  sin.  You  should  have  reported  the 
man  to  your  officer,  instead  of  fighting.” 

“I  ain’t  no  snitch.  Will  you  get  me  out  of  de  cell, 
Mr.  Inspector?” 

“You  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Warden.  He  is  very 
kind,  and  he  will  do  what  is  best  for  you.” 

“Oh,  hell!  I’m  locked  up  five  months  now.  Dat’s 
de  best  he's  doin’  fer  me.” 

“Don’t  talk  like  that  to  me,”  the  Inspector  upbraids 
him,  severely.  “You  are  a  bad  boy.  You  must  pray; 
the  good  Lord  will  take  care  of  you.” 

“You  get  out  o’  here!”  the  boy  bursts  out  in  sudden 
fury,  cursing  and  swearing. 

Mr.  Reed  hurriedly  steps  back.  His  face,  momenta¬ 
rily  paling,  turns  red  with  shame  and  anger.  He  motions 
to  the  Captain  of  the  Block. 

“Mr.  Woods,  report  this  man  for  impudence  to  an 
Inspector,”  he  orders,  stalking  out  into  the  yard. 

The  boy  is  removed  to  the  dungeon. 

Oppressed  and  weary  with  the  scenes  of  misery  and 
torture,  I  welcome  the  relief  of  solitude,  as  I  am  locked 
in  the  cell  for  the  night. 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL  283 


IV 

Reading  and  study  occupy  the  hours  of  the  evening. 
I  spend  considerable  time  corresponding  with  Nold  and 
Bauer :  our  letters  are  bulky — ten,  fifteen,  and  twenty 
pages  long.  There  is  much  to  say!  We  discuss  events 
in  the  world  at  large,  incidents  of  the  local  life,  the  mal¬ 
treatment  of  the  inmates,  the  frequent  clubbings  and 
suicides,  the  unwholesome  food.  x  I  share  with  my 
comrades  my  experiences  on  the  range;  they,  in  turn, 
keep  me  informed  of  occurrences  in  the  shops.  Their 
paths  run  smoother,  less  eventful  than  mine,  yet  not 
without  much  heartache  and  bitterness  of  spirit.  They, 
too,  are  objects  of  prejudice  and  persecution.  The  officer 
of  the  shop  where  Nold  is  employed  has  been  severely 
reprimanded  for  “neglect  of  duty”:  the  Warden  had 
noticed  Carl,  in  the  company  of  several  other  prisoners, 
passing  through  the  yard  with  a  load  of  mattings.  He 
ordered  the  guard  never  to  allow  Nold  out  of  his  sight. 
Bauer  has  also  felt  the  hand  of  petty  tyranny.  He  has 
been  deprived  of  his  dark  clothes,  and  reduced  to  the 
stripes  for  “disrespectful  behavior.”  Now  he  is  removed 
to  the  North  Wing,  where  my  cell  also  is  located,  while 
Nold  is  in  the  South  Wing,  in  a  “double”  cell,  enjoying 
the  luxury  of  a  window.  Fortunately,  though,  our 
friend,  the  “Horsethief,”  is  still  coffee-boy  on  Bauer’s 
range,  thus  enabling  me  to  reach  the  big  German.  The 
latter,  after  reading  my  notes,  returns  them  to  our 
trusted  carrier,  who  works  in  the  same  shop  with  Carl. 
Our  mail  connections  are  therefore  complete,  each  of 
us  exercising  utmost  care  not  to  be  trapped  during  the 
frequent  surprises  of  searching  our  cells  and  persons. 

Again  the  Prison  Blossoms  is  revived.  Most  of  the 
readers  of  the  previous  year,  however,  are  missing. 
Dempsey  and  Beatty,  the  Knights  of  Labor  men,  have 


284  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


been  pardoned,  thanks  to  the  multiplied  and  conflicting 
confessions  of  the  informer,  Gallagher,  who  still  remains 
in  prison.  “D,”  our  poet  laureate,  has  also  been  released, 
his  short  term  having  expired.  His  identity  remains  a 
mystery,  he  having  merely  hinted  that  he  was  a  “scientist 
of  the  old  school,  an  alchemist,”  from  which  we  inferred 
that  he  was  a  counterfeiter.  Gradually  we  recruit  our 
reading  public  from  the  more  intelligent  and  trustworthy 
element:  the  Duquesne  strikers  renew  their  “subscrip¬ 
tions”  by  contributing  paper  material;  with  them  join 
Frank  Shay,  the  philosophic  “second-story  man”;  George, 
the  prison  librarian;  “Billy”  Ryan,  professional  gambler 
and  confidence  man;  “Yale,”  a  specialist  in  the  art  of  safe 
blowing,  and  former  university  student;  the  “Attorney- 
General,”  a  sharp  lawyer;  “Magazine  Alvin,”  writer  and 
novelist;  “Jim,”  from  whose  ingenuity  no  lock  is  secure, 
and  others.  “M”  and  “K”  act  as  alternate  editors;  the 
rest  as  contributors.  The  several  departments  of  the 
little  magazinelet  are  ornamented  with  pen  and  ink 
drawings,  one  picturing  Dante  visiting  the  Inferno,  an¬ 
other  sketching  a  “pete  man,”  with  mask  and  dark  lan¬ 
tern,  in  the  act  of  boring  a  safe,  while  a  third  bears  the 
inscription : 

I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel, — 

For  words,  like  nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  soul  within. 

The  editorials  are  short,  pithy  comments  on  local 
events,  interspersed  with  humorous  sketches  and  cari¬ 
catures  of  the  officials ;  the  balance  of  the  Blossoms  con¬ 
sists  of  articles  and  essays  of  a  more  serious  character, 
embracing  religion  and  philosophy,  labor  and  politics, 
with  now  and  then  a  personal  reminiscence  by  the  “sec¬ 
ond-story  man,”  or  some  sex  experience  by  “Magazine 
Alvin.”  One  of  the  associate  editors  lampoons  “Billy- 


THE  GRIST  OF  THE  PRISON-MILL  285 


goat  Benny,”  the  Deputy  Warden;  “K”  sketches  the 
“Shop  Screw”  and  “The  Trusted  Prisoner”;  and  “G” 
relates  the  story  of  the  recent  strike  in  his  shop,  the 
men’s  demand  for  clear  pump  water  instead  of  the  liquid 
mud  tapped  from  the  river,  and  the  breaking  of  the 
strike  by  the  exile  of  a  score  of  “rioters”  to  the  dungeon. 
In  the  next  issue  the  incident  is  paralleled  with  the 
Pullman  Car  Strike,  and  the  punished  prisoners  eulogized 
for  their  courageous  stand,  some  one  dedicating  an  ultra¬ 
original  poem  to  the  “Noble  Sons  of  Eugene  Debs.” 

But  the  vicissitudes  of  our  existence,  the  change 
of  location  of  several  readers,  the  illness  and  death  of 
two  contributors,  badly  disarrange  the  route.  During 
the  winter,  “K”  produces  a  little  booklet  of  German 
poems,  while  I  elaborate  the  short  “Story  of  Luba,” 
written  the  previous  year,  into  a  novelette,  dealing  with 
life  in  New  York  and  revolutionary  circles.  Presently 
“G”  suggests  that  the  manuscripts  might  prove  of  inter¬ 
est  to  a  larger  public,  and  should  be  preserved.  We 
discuss  the  unique  plan,  wondering  how  the  intellectual 
contraband  could  be  smuggled  into  the  light  of  day.  In 
our  perplexity  we  finally  take  counsel  with  Bob,  the 
faithful  commissary.  He  cuts  the  Gordian  knot  with 
astonishing  levity:  “Youse  fellows  jest  go  ahead  an’ 
write,  an’  don’t  bother  about  nothin’.  Think  I  can  walk 
off  all  right  with  a  team  of  horses,  but  ain’t  got  brains 
enough  to  get  away  with  a  bit  of  scribbling,  eh?  Jest 
leave  that  to  th’  Horsethief,  an’  write  till  you  bust  th’ 
paper  works,  see?”  Thus  encouraged,  with  entire  con¬ 
fidence  in  our  resourceful  friend,  we  give  the  matter 
serious  thought,  and  before  long  we  form  the  ambitious 
project  of  publishing  a  book  by  “MKG” ! 

In  high  elation,  with  new  interest  in  life,  we  set  to 
work.  The  little  magazine  is  suspended,  and  we  devote 
all  our  spare  time,  as  well  as  every  available  scrap  of 


286  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

writing  material,  to  the  larger  purpose.  We  decide  to 
honor  the  approaching  day,  so  pregnant  with  revolution¬ 
ary  inspiration,  and  as  the  sun  bursts  in  brilliant  splendor 
on  the  eastern  skies,  the  First  of  May ,  1895,  he  steals  a 
blushing  beam  upon  the  heading  of  the  first  chapter — 
“The  Homestead  Strike.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE  SCALES  OF  JUSTICE 

I 

The  summer  fades  into  days  of  dull  gray;  the  fog 
thickens  on  the  Ohio ;  the  prison  house  is  dim  and 
damp.  The  river  sirens  sound  sharp  and  shrill,  and  the 
cells  echo  with  coughing  and  wheezing.  The  sick  line 
stretches  longer,  the  men  looking  more  forlorn  and 
dejected.  The  prisoner  in  charge  of  tier  “K”  suffers  a 
hemorrhage,  and  is  carried  to  the  hospital.  From  assist¬ 
ant,  I  am  advanced  to  his  position  on  the  range. 

But  one  morning  the  levers  are  pulled,  the  cells 
unlocked,  and  the  men  fed,  while  I  remain  under  key. 
I  wonder  at  the  peculiar  oversight,  and  rap  on  the  bars 
for  the  officers.  The  Block  Captain  orders  me  to  desist. 
I  request  to  see  the  Warden,  but  am  gruffly  told  that 
he  cannot  be  disturbed  in  the  morning.  In  vain  I  rack 
my  brain  to  fathom  the  cause  of  my  punishment.  I 
review  the  incidents  of  the  past  weeks,  ponder  over  each 
detail,  but  the  mystery  remains  unsolved.  Perhaps  I 
have  unwittingly  offended  some  trusty,  or  I  may  be  the 
object  of  the  secret  enmity  of  a  spy. 

The  Chaplain,  on  his  daily  rounds,  hands  me  a  letter 
from  the  Girl,  and  glances  in  surprise  at  the  closed  door. 

“Not  feeling  well,  m’  boy?”  he  asks. 

“I’m  locked  up,  Chaplain.” 

“What  have  you  done?” 

287 


288  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Nothing  that  I  know  of.” 

“Oh,  well,  you’ll  be  out  soon.  Don’t  fret,  m’  boy.” 

But  the  days  pass,  and  I  remain  in  the  cell.  The 
guards  look  worried,  and  vent  their  ill-humor  in  profuse 
vulgarity.  The  Deputy  tries  to  appear  mysterious, 
wobbles  comically  along  the  range,  and  splutters  at  me: 
“Nothin’.  Shtay  where  you  are.”  Jasper,  the  colored 
trusty,  flits  up  and  down  the  hall,  tremendously  busy, 
his  black  face  more  lustrous  than  ever.  Numerous 
stools  nose  about  the  galleries,  stop  here  and  there  in 
confidential  conversation  with  officers  and  prisoners,  and 
whisper  excitedly  at  the  front  desk.  Assistant  Deputy 
Hopkins  goes  in  and  out  of  the  block,  repeatedly  calls 
Jasper  to  the  office,  and  hovers  in  the  neighborhood  of 
my  cell.  The  rangemen  talk  in  suppressed  tones.  An 
air  of  mystery  pervades  the  cell-house. 

Finally  I  am  called  to  the  Warden.  With  uncon¬ 
cealed  annoyance,  he  demands : 

“What  did  you  want?” 

“The  officers  locked  me  up — ” 

“Who  said  you’re  locked  up?”  he  interrupts,  angrily. 
“You’re  merely  locked  in.” 

“Where’s  the  difference?”  I  ask. 

“One  is  locked  up  ‘for  cause.’  You’re  just  kept  in 
for  the  present.” 

“On  what  charge?” 

“No  charge.  None  whatever.  Take  him  back, 
Officers.” 

•  ••••••• 

Close  confinement  becomes  increasingly  more  dismal 
and  dreary.  By  contrast  with  the  spacious  hall,  the  cell 
grows  smaller  and  narrower,  oppressing  me  with  a  sense 
of  suffocation.  My  sudden  isolation  remains  unex¬ 
plained.  Notwithstanding  the  Chaplain’s  promise  to 
intercede  in  my  behalf,  I  remain  locked  “in,”  and  again 


THE  SCALES  OF  JUSTICE  289 

return  the  days  of  solitary,  with  all  their  gloom  and 
anguish  of  heart. 


II 

A  ray  of  light  is  shed  from  New  York.  The  Girl 
writes  in  a  hopeful  vein  about  the  progress  of  the  move¬ 
ment,  and  the  intense  interest  in  my  case  among  radical 
circles.  She  refers  to  Comrade  Merlino,  now  on  a 
tour  of  agitation,  and  is  enthusiastic  about  the  favor¬ 
able  labor  sentiment  toward  me,  manifested  in  the 
cities  he  had  visited.  Finally  she  informs  me  of  a 
plan  on  foot  to  secure  a  reduction  of  my  sentence,  and 
the  promising  outlook  for  the  collection  of  the  necessary 
funds.  From  Merlino  I  receive  a  sum  of  money  already 
contributed  for  the  purpose,  together  with  a  letter  of 
appreciation  and  encouragement,  concluding :  “Good 
cheer,  dear  Comrade;  the  last  word  has  not  yet  been 
spoken.” 

My  mind  dwells  among  my  friends.  The  breath 
from  the  world  of  the  living  fans  the  smoldering  fires 
of  longing;  the  tone  of  my  comrades  revibrates  in  my 
heart  with  trembling  hope.  But  the  revision  of  my  sen¬ 
tence  involves  recourse  to  the  courts !  The  sudden  real¬ 
ization  fills  me  with  dismay.  I  cannot  be  guilty  of  a 
sacrifice  of  principle  to  gain  freedom;  the  mere  sug¬ 
gestion  rouses  the  violent  protest  of  my  revolutionary 
traditions.  In  bitterness  of  soul,  I  resent  my  friends’ 
ill-advised  waking  of  the  shades.  I  shall  never  leave 
the  house  of  death.  .  .  . 

And  yet  mail  from  my  friends,  full  of  expectation 
and  confidence,  arrives  more  frequently.  Prominent 
lawyers  have  been  consulted;  their  unanimous  opinion 
augurs  well :  the  multiplication  of  my  sentences  was 
illegal;  according  to  the  statutes  of  Pennsylvania,  the 


290  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


maximum  penalty  should  not  have  exceeded  seven  years; 
the  Supreme  Court  would  undoubtedly  reverse  the 
judgment  of  the  lower  tribunal,  specifically  the  convic¬ 
tion  on  charges  not  constituting  a  crime  under  the  laws 
of  the  State.  And  so  forth. 

I  am  assailed  by  doubts.  Is  it  consequent  in  me  to 
decline  liberty,  apparently  within  reach?  John  Most  ap¬ 
pealed  his  case  to  the  Supreme  Court,  and  the  Girl  also 
took  advantage  of  a  legal  defence.  Considerable  pro¬ 
paganda  resulted  from  it.  Should  I  refuse  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  which  would  offer  such  a  splendid  field  for  agita¬ 
tion?  Would  it  not  be  folly  to  afford  the  enemy  the 
triumph  of  my  gradual  annihilation?  I  would  without 
hesitation  reject  freedom  at  the  price  of  my  convictions; 
but  it  involves  no  denial  of  my  faith  to  rob  the  vampire 
of  its  prey.  We  must,  if  necessary,  fight  the  beast  of 
oppression  with  its  own  methods,  scourge  the  law  in  its 
own  tracks,  as  it  were.  Of  course,  the  Supreme  Court 
is  but  another  weapon  in  the  hands  of  authority,  a  pre¬ 
tence  of  impartial  right.  It  decided  against  Most,  sus¬ 
taining  the  prejudiced  verdict  of  the  trial  jury.  They 
may  do  the  same  in  my  case.  But  that  very  circumstance 
will  serve  to  confirm  our  arraignment  of  class  justice. 
I  shall  therefore  endorse  the  efforts  of  my  friends. 

But  before  long  I  am  informed  that  an  application 
to  the  higher  court  is  not  permitted.  The  attorneys, 
upon  examination  of  the  records  of  the  trial,  discovered 
a  fatal  obstacle,  they  said.  The  defendant,  not  being 
legally  represented,  neglected  to  “take  exceptions”  to 
rulings  of  the  court  prejudicial  to  the  accused.  Because 
of  the  technical  omission,  there  exists  no  basis  for  an 
appeal.  They  therefore  advise  an  application  to  the 
Board  of  Pardons,  on  the  ground  that  the  punishment 
in  my  case  is  excessive.  They  are  confident  that  the 
Board  will  act  favorably,  in  view  of  the  obvious  uncon- 


THE  SCALES  OF  JUSTICE 


291 


stitutionality  of  the  compounded  sentences, — the  five 
minor  indictments  being  indispensible  parts  of  the  major 
charge  and,  as  such,  not  constituting  separate  offences. 

The  unexpected  development  disquiets  me :  the  sound 
of  “pardon”  is  detestable.  What  bitter  irony  that  the 
noblest  intentions,  the  most  unselfish  motives,  need  seek 
pardon !  Aye,  of  the  very  source  that  misinterprets  and 
perverts  them!  For  days  the  implied  humiliation  keeps 
agitating  me;  I  recoil  from  the  thought  of  personally 
affixing  my  name  to  the  meek  supplication  of  the  printed 
form,  and  finally  decide  to  refuse. 

An  accidental  conversation  with  the  “Attorney  Gen¬ 
eral”  disturbs  my  resolution.  I  learn  that  in  Pennsyl¬ 
vania  the  applicant’s  signature  is  not  required  by  the 
Pardon  Board.  A  sense  of  guilty  hope  steals  over  me. 
Yet — I  reflect — the  pardon  of  the  Chicago  Anarchists 
had  contributed  much  to  the  dissemination  of  our  ideas. 
The  impartial  analysis  of  the  trial-evidence  by  Governor 
Altgeld  completely  exonerated  our  comrades  from 
responsibility  for  the  Haymarket  tragedy,  and  exposed 
the  heinous  conspiracy  to  destroy  the  most  devoted  and 
able  representatives  of  the  labor  movement.  May  not 
a  similar  purpose  be  served  by  my  application  for  a 
pardon  ? 

I  write  to  my  comrades,  signifying  my  consent.  We 
arrange  for  a  personal  interview,  to  discuss  the  details 
of  the  work.  Unfortunately,  the  Girl,  a  persona  non 
grata,  cannot  visit  me.  But  a  mutual  friend,  Miss  Garri¬ 
son,  is  to  call  on  me  within  two  months.  At  my  request, 
the  Chaplain  forwards  to  her  the  necessary  permission, 
and  I  impatiently  await  the  first  friendly  face  in  two 
years. 


292  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


III 

As  unaccountably  as  my  punishment  in  the  solitary, 
comes  the  relief  at  the  expiration  of  three  weeks.  The 
“K”  hall-boy  is  still  in  the  hospital,  and  I  resume  the 
duties  of  rangeman.  The  guards  eye  me  with  suspicion 
and  greater  vigilance,  but  I  soon  unravel  the  tangled 
skein,  and  learn  the  details  of  the  abortive  escape  that 
caused  my  temporary  retirement. 

The  lock  of  my  neighbor,  Johnny  Smith,  had  been 
tampered  with.  The  youth,  in  solitary  at  the  time,  neces¬ 
sarily  had  the  aid  of  another,  it  being  impossible  to  reach 
the  keyhole  from  the  inside  of  the  cell.  The  suspicion 
of  the  Warden  centered  upon  me,  but  investigation  by 
the  stools  discovered  the  men  actually  concerned,  and 
“Dutch”  Adams,  Spencer,  Smith,  and  Jim  Grant  were 
chastised  in  the  dungeon,  and  are  now  locked  up  “for 
cause,”  on  my  range. 

By  degrees  Johnny  confides  to  me  the  true  story  of 
the  frustrated  plan.  “Dutch,”  a  repeater  serving  his 
fifth  “bit,”  and  favorite  of  Hopkins,  procured  a  piece 
of  old  iron,  and  had  it  fashioned  into  a  key  in  the 
machine  shop,  where  he  was  employed.  He  entrusted 
the  rude  instrument  to  Grant,  a  young  reformatory  boy, 
for  a  preliminary  trial.  The  guileless  youth  easily 
walked  into  the  trap,  and  the  makeshift  key  was  broken 
in  the  lock — with  disastrous  results. 

The  tricked  boys  now  swear  vengeance  upon  the 
provocateur ,  but  “Dutch”  is  missing  from  the  range. 
He  has  been  removed  to  an  upper  gallery,  and  is  assigned 
to  a  coveted  position  in  the  shops. 

The  newspapers  print  vivid  stories  of  the  desperate 
attempt  to  escape  from  Riverside,  and  compliment  Cap¬ 
tain  Wright  and  the  officers  for  so  successfully  protect¬ 
ing  the  community.  The  Warden  is  deeply  affected,  and 


THE  SCALES  OF  JUSTICE 


293 


orders  the  additional  punishment  of  the  offenders  with 
a  bread-and-water  diet.  The  Deputy  walks  with  inflated 
chest;  Hopkins  issues  orders  curtailing  the  privileges  of 
the  inmates,  and  inflicting  greater  hardships.  The  tone 
of  the  guards  sounds  haughtier,  more  peremptory;  Jas¬ 
per’s  face  wears  a  blissful  smile.  The  trusties  look 
pleased  and  cheerful,  but  sullen  gloom  shrouds  the 
prison. 


IV 

I  am  standing  at  my  cell,  when  the  door  of  the 
rotunda  slowly  opens,  and  the  Warden  approaches  me. 

“A  lady  just  called;  Miss  Garrison,  from  New  York. 
Do  you  know  her?” 

“She  is  one  of  my  friends.” 

“I  dismissed  her.  You  can’t  see  her.” 

“Why?  The  rules  entitle  me  to  a  visit  every  three 
months.  I  have  had  none  in  two  years.  I  want  to  see 
her.” 

“You  can’t.  She  needs  a  permit.” 

“The  Chaplain  sent  her  one  at  my  request.” 

“A  member  of  the  Board  of  Inspectors  rescinded  it 
by  telegraph.” 

“What  Inspector?” 

“You  can’t  question  me.  Your  visitor  has  been  re¬ 
fused  admittance.” 

“Will  you  tell  me  the  reason,  Warden?” 

“No  reason,  no  reason  whatever.” 

He  turns  on  his  heel,  when  I  detain  him:  “Warden, 
it’s  two  years  since  I’ve  been  in  the  dungeon.  I  am  in 
the  first  grade  now,”  I  point  to  the  recently  earned  dark 
suit.  “I  am  entitled  to  all  the  privileges.  Why  am  I 
deprived  of  visits?” 

“Not  another  word." 


294  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


He  disappears  through  the  yard  door.  From  the 
galleries  I  hear  the  jeering  of  a  trusty.  A  guard  near  by 
brings  his  thumb  to  his  nose,  and  wriggles  his  fingers  in 
my  direction.  Humiliated  and  angry,  I  return  to  the 
cell,  to  find  the  monthly  letter-sheet  on  my  table.  I  pour 
out  all  the  bitterness  of  my  heart  to  the  Girl,  dwell  on 
the  Warden’s  discrimination  against  me,  and  repeat  our 
conversation  and  his  refusal  to  admit  my  visitor.  In 
conclusion,  I  direct  her  to  have  a  Pittsburgh  lawyer 
apply  to  the  courts,  to  force  the  prison  authorities  to 
restore  to  me  the  privileges  allowed  by  the  law  to  the 
ordinary  prisoner.  I  drop  the  letter  in  the  mail-box, 
hoping  that  my  outburst  and  the  threat  of  the  law  will 
induce  the  Warden  to  retreat  from  his  position.  The 
Girl  will,  of  course,  understand  the  significance  of  the 
epistle,  aware  that  my  reference  to  a  court  process  is 
a  diplomatic  subterfuge  for  effect,  and  not  meant  to  be 
acted  upon. 

But  the  next  day  the  Chaplain  returns  the  letter  to 
me.  “Not  so  rash,  my  boy,”  he  warns  me,  not  unkindly. 
“Be  patient;  I’ll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.” 

“But  the  letter,  Chaplain?” 

“You’ve  wasted  your  paper,  Aleck.  I  can’t  pass 
this  letter.  But  just  keep  quiet,  and  I’ll  look  into  the 
matter.” 

Weeks  pass  in  evasive  replies.  Finally  the  Chaplain 
advises  a  personal  interview  with  the  Warden.  The 
latter  refers  me  to  the  Inspectors.  To  each  member  of 
the  Board  I  address  a  request  for  a  few  minutes’  conver¬ 
sation,  but  a  month  goes  by  without  word  from  the  high 
officials.  The  friendly  runner,  “Southside”  Johnny, 
offers  to  give  me  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  an  Inspector, 
on  the  payment  of  ten  plugs  of  tobacco.  Unfortunately, 
I  cannot  spare  my  small  allowance,  but  I  tender  him  a 
dollar  bill  of  the  money  the  Girl  had  sent  me  artfully 


THE  SCALES  OF  JUSTICE 


s  295 


concealed  in  the  buckle  of  a  pair  of  suspenders.  The 
runner  is  highly  elated,  and  assures  me  of  success,  direct¬ 
ing  me  to  keep  careful  watch  on  the  yard  door. 

Several  days  later,  passing  along  the  range  engaged 
in  my  duties,  I  notice  “Southside”  entering  from  the 
yard,  in  friendly  conversation  with  a  strange  gentleman 
in  citizen  clothes.  For  a  moment  I  do  not  realize  the 
situation,  but  the  next  instant  I  am  aware  of  Johnny’s 
violent  efforts  to  attract  my  attention.  He  pretends  to 
show  the  man  some  fancy  work  made  by  the  inmates, 
all  the  while  drawing  him  closer  to  my  door,  with  sur¬ 
reptitious  nods  at  me.  I  approach  my  cell. 

“This  is  Berkman,  Mr.  Nevin,  the  man  who  shot 
Frick,”  Johnny  remarks. 

The  gentleman  turns  to  me  with  a  look  of  interest. 

“Good  morning,  Berkman,”  he  says  pleasantly. 
“How  long  are  you  doing?” 

“Twenty-two  years.” 

“I’m  sorry  to  hear  that.  It’s  rather  a  long  sentence. 
You  know  who  I  am?” 

“Inspector  Nevin,  I  believe.” 

“Yes.  You  have  never  seen  me  before?” 

“No.  I  sent  a  request  to  see  you  recently.” 

“When  was  that?” 

“A  month  ago.” 

“Strange.  I  was  in  the  office  three  weeks  ago.  There 
was  no  note  from  you  on  my  file.  Are  you  sure  you 
sent  one?” 

“Quite  sure.  I  sent  a  request  to  each  Inspector.” 

“What’s  the  trouble?” 

I  inform  him  briefly  that  I  have  been  deprived  of 
visiting  privileges.  Somewhat  surprised,  he  glances  at 
my  dark  clothes,  and  remarks : 

“You  are  in  the  first  grade,  and  therefore  entitled 
to  visits.  When  did  you  have  your  last  visitor?” 


296  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“Two  years  ago.” 

“Two  years?”  he  asks,  almost  incredulously.  “Did 
the  lady  from  New  York  have  a  permit?” 

The  Warden  hurriedly  enters  from  the  yard. 

“Mr.  Nevin,”  he  calls  out  anxiously,  “I’ve  been  look¬ 
ing  for  you.” 

“Berkman  was  just  telling  me  about  his  visitor  being 
sent  away,  Captain,”  the  Inspector  remarks. 

“Yes,  yes,”  the  Warden  smiles,  forcedly,  “  ‘for  cause.’  ” 

“Oh !”  the  face  of  Mr.  Nevin  assumes  a  grave  look. 
“Berkman,”  he  turns  to  me,  “you’ll  have  to  apply  to  the 
Secretary  of  the  Board,  Mr.  Reed.  I  am  not  familiar 
with  the  internal  affairs.” 

The  Warden  links  his  arm  with  the  Inspector,  and 
they  walk  toward  the  yard  door.  At  the  entrance  they 
are  met  by  “Dutch”  Adams,  the  shop  messenger. 

“Good  morning,  Mr.  Nevin,”  the  trusty  greets  him. 
“Won’t  you  issue  me  a  special  visit?  My  mother  is  sick; 
she  wants  to  see  me.” 

The  Warden  grins  at  the  ready  fiction. 

“When  did  you  have  your  last  visit?”  the  Inspector 
inquires. 

“Two  weeks  ago.” 

“You  are  entitled  to  one  only  every  three  months.” 

“That  is  why  I  asked  you  for  an  extra,  Mr.  Inspec¬ 
tor,”  “Dutch”  retorts  boldly.  “I  know  you  are  a  kind 
man.” 

Mr.  Nevin  smiles  good-naturedly  and  glances  at  the 
Warden. 

“Dutch  is  all  right,”  the  Captain  nods. 

The  Inspector  draws  his  visiting  card,  pencils  on  it, 
and  hands  it  to  the  prisoner. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THOUGHTS  THAT  STOLE  OUT  OF  PRISON 

April  12,  1896. 

My  Dear  Girl: 

I  have  craved  for  a  long,  long  time  to  have  a  free  talk  with 
you,  but  this  is  the  first  opportunity.  A  good  friend,  a  “lover 
of  horseflesh,”  promised  to  see  this  “birdie”  through.  I  hope  it 
will  reach  you  safely. 

In  my  local  correspondence  you  have  been  christened 
the  “Immutable.”  I  realize  how  difficult  it  is  to  keep  up  letter¬ 
writing  through  the  endless  years,  the  points  of  mutual  in¬ 
terest  gradually  waning.  It  is  one  of  the  tragedies  in  the 
existence  of  a  prisoner.  “K”  and  “G”  have  almost  ceased  to 
expect  mail.  But  I  am  more  fortunate.  The  Twin  writes 
very  seldom  nowadays;  the  correspondence  of  other  friends  is 
fitful.  But  you  are  never  disappointing.  It  is  not  so  much 
the  contents  that  matter:  these  increasingly  sound  like  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  a  strange  world,  with  its  bewildering  flurry  and  fer¬ 
ment,  disturbing  the  calm  of  cell-life.  But  the  very  arrival  of 
a  letter  is  momentous.  It  brings  a  glow  into  the  prisoner’s  heart 
to  feel  that  he  is  remembered,  actively,  with  that  intimate  inter¬ 
est  which  alone  can  support  a  regular  correspondence.  And 
then  your  letters  are  so  vital,  so  palpitating  with  the  throb  of 
our  common  cause.  I  have  greatly  enjoyed  your  communica¬ 
tions  from  Paris  and  Vienna,  the  accounts  of  the  movement 
and  of  our  European  comrades.  Your  letters  are  so  much 
part  of  yourself,  they  bring  me  nearer  to  you  and  to  life. 

The  newspaper  clippings  you  have  referred  to  on  various 
occasions,  have  been  withheld  from  me.  Nor  are  any  radical 
publications  permitted.  I  especially  regret  to  miss  Solidarity. 
I  have  not  seen  a  single  copy  since  its  resurrection  two  years 
ago.  I  have  followed  the  activities  of  Chas.  W.  Mowbray  and 
the  recent  tour  of  John  Turner,  so  far  as  the  press  accounts 

297  { 


298  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


are  concerned.  I  hope  you’ll  write  more  about  our  English 
comrades. 

I  need  not  say  much  of  the  local  life,  dear.  That  you  know 
from  my  official  mail,  and  you  can  read  between  the  lines.  The 
action  of  the  Pardon  Board  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  me. 
No  less  to  you  also,  I  suppose.  Not  that  I  was  very  enthusiastic 
as  to  a  favorable  decision.  But  that  they  should  so  cynically 
evade  the  issue, — I  was  hardly  prepared  for  that.  I  had  hoped 
they  would  at  least  consider  the  case.  But  evidently  they  were 
averse  to  going  on  record,  one  way  or  another.  The  lawyers 
informed  me  that  they  were  not  even  allowed  an  opportunity 
to  present  their  arguments.  The  Board  ruled  that  “the  wrong 
complained  of  is  not  actual”;  that  is,  that  I  am  not  yet  serving 
the  sentence  we  want  remitted.  A  lawyer’s  quibble.  It  means 
that  I  must  serve  the  first  sentence  of  seven  years,  before  apply¬ 
ing  for  the  remission  of  the  other  indictments.  Discounting 
commutation  time,  I  still  have  about  a  year  to  complete  the  first 
sentence.  I  doubt  whether  it  is  advisable  to  try  again.  Little 
justice  can  be  expected  from  those  quarters.  But  I  want  to 
submit  another  proposition  to  you;  consult  with  our  friends 
regarding  it.  It  is  this:  there  is  a  prisoner  here  who  has  just 
been  pardoned  by  the  Board,  whose  president,  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor,  is  indebted  to  the  prisoner’s  lawyer  for  certain  polit¬ 
ical  services.  The  attorney’s  name  is  K - D - of  Pittsburgh. 

He  has  intimated  to  his  client  that  he  will  guarantee  my  release 
for  $1,000.00,  the  sum  to  be  deposited  in  safe  hands  and  to  be 
paid  only  in  case  of  success.  Of  course,  we  cannot  afford  such  a 
large  fee.  And  I  cannot  say  whether  the  offer  is  worth  con¬ 
sidering;  still,  you  know  that  almost  anything  can  be  bought 
from  politicians.  I  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands. 

The  question  of  my  visits  seems  tacitly  settled;  I  can  pro¬ 
cure  no  permit  for  my  friends  to  see  me.  For  some  obscure 
reason,  the  Warden  has  conceived  a  great  fear  of  an  Anarchist 
plot  against  the  prison.  The  local  “trio”  is  under  special  sur¬ 
veillance  and  constantly  discriminated  against,  though  “K”  and 
“G”  are  permitted  to  receive  visits.  You  will  smile  at  the  infan¬ 
tile  terror  of  the  authorities :  it  is  bruited  about  that  a  “certain 
Anarchist  lady”  (meaning  you,  I  presume;  in  reality  it  was 
Henry’s  sweetheart,  a  jolly  devil-may-care  girl)  made  a  threat 
against  the  prison.  The  gossips  have  it  that  she  visited  Inspector 
Reed  at  his  business  place,  and  requested  to  see  me.  The  In- 


/ 


/ 


THOUGHTS  THAT  STOLE  OUT  OF  PRISON  299 


spector  refusing,  she  burst  out:  “We’ll  blow  your  dirty  walls 
down.”  I  could  not  determine  whether  there  is  any  foundation 
for  the  story,  but  it  is  circulated  here,  and  the  prisoners  firmly 
believe  it  explains  my  deprivation  of  visits. 

That  is  a  characteristic  instance  of  local  conditions.  In¬ 
voluntarily  I  smile  at  Kennan’s  naive  indignation  with  the  bru¬ 
talities  he  thinks  possible  only  in  Russian  and  Siberian  prisons. 
He  would  find  it  almost  impossible  to  learn  the  true  con¬ 
ditions  in  the  American  prisons :  he  would  be  conducted  the 
rounds  of  the  “show”  cells,  always  neat  and  clean  for  the  pur¬ 
pose;  he  would  not  see  the  basket  cell,  nor  the  bull  rings  in  the 
dungeon,  where  men  are  chained  for  days;  nor  would  he  be 
permitted  to  converse  for  hours,  or  whole  evenings,  with  the 
prisoners,  as  he  did  with  the  exiles  in  Siberia.  Yet  if  he  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  learning  even  half  the  truth,  he  would  be  forced  to 
revise  his  views  of  American  penal  institutions,  as  he  did  in 
regard  to  Russian  politicals.  He  would  be  horrified  to  witness 
the  brutality  that  is  practised  here  as  a  matter  of  routine,  the 
abuse  of  the  insane,  the  petty  persecution.  Inhumanity  is  the 
keynote  of  stupidity  in  power. 

Your  soul  must  have  been  harrowed  by  the  reports  of  the 
terrible  tortures  in  Montjuich.  What  is  all  indignation  and 
lamenting,  in  the  face  of  the  revival  of  the  Inquisition?  Is 
there  no  Nemesis  in  Spain? 


CHAPTER  XXV 


HOW  SHALL  THE  DEPTHS  CRY? 

I 

The  change  of  seasons  varies  the  tone  of  the  prison. 
A  cheerier  atmosphere  pervades  the  shops  and  the  cell- 
house  in  the  summer.  The  block  is  airier  and  lighter; 
the  guards  relax  their  stern  look,  in  anticipation  of  their 
vacations ;  the  men  hopefully  count  the  hours  till  their 
approaching  freedom,  and  the  gates  open  daily  to  release 
some  one  going  back  to  the  world. 

But  heavy  gloom  broods  over  the  prison  in  winter. 
The  windows  are  closed  and  nailed;  the  vitiated  air, 
artificially  heated,  is  suffocating  with  dryness.  Smoke 
darkens  the  shops,  and  the  cells  are  in  constant  dusk. 
Tasks  grow  heavier,  the  punishments  more  severe.  The 
officers  look  sullen ;  the  men  are  morose  and  discontented. 
The  ravings  of  the  insane  become  wilder,  suicides  more 
frequent;  despair  and  hopelessness  oppress  every  heart. 

The  undercurrent  of  rebellion,  swelling  with  mute 
suffering  and  repression,  turbulently  sweeps  the  barriers. 
The  severity  of  the  authorities  increases,  methods  of 
penalizing  are  more  drastic;  the  prisoners  fret,  wax 
more  querulous,  and  turn  desperate  with  blind,  spasmodic 
defiance. 

But  among  the  more  intelligent  inmates,  dissatisfac¬ 
tion  manifests  more  coherent  expression.  The  Lexow 
investigation  in  New  York  has  awakened  an  echo  in  the 
prison.  A  movement  is  quietly  initiated  among  the 
solitaries,  looking  toward  an  investigation  of  Riverside. 

300 


HOW  SHALL  THE  DEPTHS  CRY? 


301 


I  keep  busy  helping  the  men  exchange  notes  matur¬ 
ing  the  project.  Great  care  must  be  exercised  to  guard 
against  treachery:  only  men  of  proved  reliability  may 
be  entrusted  with  the  secret,  and  precautions  taken  that 
no  officer  or  stool  scent  our  design.  The  details  of  the 
campaign  are  planned  on  “K”  range,  with  Billy  Ryan, 
Butch,  Sloane,  and  Jimmie  Grant,  as  the  most  trust¬ 
worthy,  in  command.  It  is  decided  that  the  attack  upon 
the  management  of  the  penitentiary  is  to  be  initiated 
from  the  “outside.”  A  released  prisoner  is  to  inform 
the  press  of  the  abuses,  graft,  and  immorality  rampant 
in  Riverside.  The  public  will  demand  an  investigation. 
The  “cabal”  on  the  range  will  supply  the  investigators 
with  data  and  facts  that  will  rouse  the  conscience  of  the 
community,  and  cause  the  dismissal  of  the  Warden  and 
the  introduction  of  reforms. 

A  prisoner,  about  to  be  discharged,  is  selected  for  the 
important  mission  of  enlightening  the  press.  In  great 
anxiety  and  expectation  we  await  the  newspapers,  the 
day  following  his  liberation;  we  scan  the  pages  closely. 
Not  a  word  of  the  penitentiary!  Probably  the  released 
man  has  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  to  visit  the  editors. 
In  the  joy  of  freedom,  he  may  have  looked  too  deeply 
into  the  cup  that  cheers.  He  will  surely  interview  the 
papers  the  next  day. 

But  the  days  pass  into  weeks,  without  any  reference 
in  the  press  to  the  prison.  The  trusted  man  has  failed 
us !  The  revelation  of  the  life  at  Riverside  is  of  a  nature 
not  to  be  ignored  by  the  press.  The  discharged  inmate 
has  proved  false  to  his  promise.  Bitterly  the  solitaries 
denounce  him,  and  resolve  to  select  a  more  reliable  man 

7  r 

among  the  first  candidates  for  liberty. 

One  after  another,  a  score  of  men  are  entrusted  with 
the  mission  to  the  press.  But  the  papers  remain  silent. 
Anxiously,  though  every  day  less  hopefully,  we  search 


302  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


their  columns.  Ryan  cynically  derides  the  faithlessness 
of  convict  promises;  Butch  rages  and  swears  at  the 
traitors.  But  Sloane  is  sternly  confident  in  his  own 
probity,  and  cheers  me  as  I  pause  at  his  cell: 

“Never  min’  them  rats,  Aleck.  You  jest  wait  till  I 
go  out.  Here’s  the  boy  that’ll  keep  his  promise  all  right. 
What  I  won’t  do  to  old  Sandy  ain’t  worth  mentionin’.” 

“Why,  you  still  have  two  years,  Ed,”  I  remind  him. 

“Not  on  your  tintype,  Aleck.  Only  one  and  a  stump.” 

“How  big  is  the  stump?” 

“Wa-a-11,”  he  chuckles,  looking  somewhat  diffident, 
“it’s  one  year,  elev’n  months,  an’  twenty-sev’n  days.  It 
ain’t  no  two  years,  though,  see?” 

Jimmy  Grant  grows  peculiarly  reserved,  evidently 
disinclined  to  talk.  He  seeks  to  avoid  me.  The  treach¬ 
ery  of  the  released  men  fills  him  with  resentment  and 
suspicion  of  every  one.  He  is  impatient  of  my  sugges¬ 
tion  that  the  fault  may  lie  with  a  servile  press.  At  the 
mention  of  our  plans,  he  bursts  out  savagely: 

“Forget  it!  You’re  no  good,  none  of  you.  Let  me 
be !”  He  turns  his  back  to  me,  and  angrily  paces  the  cell. 

His  actions  fill  me  with  concern.  The  youth  seems 
strangely  changed.  Fortunately,  his  time  is  almost 
served. 


II 

Like  wildfire  the  news  circles  the  prison.  “The  pa¬ 
pers  are  giving  Sandy  hell !”  The  air  in  the  block 
trembles  with  suppressed  excitement.  Jimmy  Grant, 
recently  released,  had  sent  a  communication  to  the  State 
Board  of  Charities,  bringing  serious  charges  against  the 
management  of  Riverside.  The  press  publishes  start¬ 
lingly  significant  excerpts  from  Grant’s  letter.  Edi¬ 
torially,  however,  the  indictment  is  ignored  by  the  major¬ 
ity  of  the  Pittsburgh  papers.  One  writer  comments 


HOW  SHALL  THE  DEPTHS  CRY? 


303 


ambiguously,  in  guarded  language,  suggesting  the  im¬ 
probability  of  the  horrible  practices  alleged  by  Grant. 
Another  eulogizes  Warden  Wright  as  an  intelligent  and 
humane  man,  who  has  the  interest  of  the  prisoners  at 
heart.  The  detailed  accusations  are  briefly  dismissed  as 
unworthy  of  notice,  because  coming  from  a  disgruntled 
criminal  who  had  not  found  prison  life  to  his  liking. 
Only  the  Leader  and  the  Dispatch  consider  the  matter 
seriously,  refer  to  the  numerous  complaints  from  dis¬ 
charged  prisoners,  and  suggest  the  advisability  of  an 
investigation;  they  urge  upon  the  Warden  the  necessity 
of  disproving,  once  for  all,  the  derogatory  statements 
regarding  his  management. 

Within  a  few  days  the  President  of  the  Board  of 
Charities  announces  his  decision  to  “look  over”  the  peni¬ 
tentiary.  December  is  on  the  wane,  and  the  Board  is 
expected  to  visit  Riverside  after  the  holidays. 

Ill 

IC.  &  G. : 

Of  course,  neither  of  you  has  any  more  faith  in  alleged 
investigations  than  myself.  The  Lexow  investigation,  which 
shocked  the  whole  country  with  its  expose  of  police  corruption, 
has  resulted  in  practically  nothing.  One  or  two  subordinates 
have  been  “scapegoated'’;  those  “higher  up”  went  unscathed,  as 
usual;  the  “system”  itself  remains  in  statu  quo.  The  one  who  has 
mostly  profited  by  the  spasm  of  morality  is  Goff,  to  whom  the 
vice  crusade  afforded  an  opportunity  to  rise  from  obscurity  into 
the  national  limelight.  Parkhurst.  also  has  subsided,  probably 
content  with  the  enlarged  size  of  his  flock  and — salary.  To  give 
the  devil  his  due,  however,  I  admired  his  perseverance  and 
courage  in  face  of  the  storm  of  ridicule  and  scorn  that  met  his 
initial  accusations  against  the  glorious  police  department  of 
the  metropolis.  But  though  every  charge  has  been  proved  in 
the  most  absolute  manner,  the  situation,  as  a  whole,  remains 
unchanged. 

It  is  the  history  of  all  investigations.  As  the  Germans  say, 
you  can’t  convict  the  devil  in  the  court  of  his  mother-in-law. 


304  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


It  has  again  been  demonstrated  by  the  Congressional  “inquiry” 
into  the  Carnegie  blow-hole  armor  plate;  in  the  terrible  revela¬ 
tions  regarding  Superintendent  Brockway,  of  the  Elmira  Re¬ 
formatory — a  veritable  den  for  maiming  and  killing;  and  in 
numerous  other  instances.  Warden  Wright  also  was  investi¬ 
gated,  about  ten  years  ago;  a  double  set  of  books  was  then 
found,  disclosing  peculation  of  appropriations  and  theft  of  the 
prison  product;  brutality  and  murder  were  uncovered — yet 
Sandy  has  remained  in  his  position. 

We  can,  therefore,  expect  nothing  from  the  proposed  in¬ 
vestigation  by  the  Board  of  Charities.  I  have  no  doubt  it  will 
be  a  whitewash.  But  I  think  that  we — the  Anarchist  trio — should 
show  our  solidarity,  and  aid  the  inmates  with  our  best  efforts; 
we  must  prevent  the  investigation  resulting  in  a  farce,  so  far  as 
evidence  against  the  management  is  concerned.  We  should 
leave  the  Board  no  loophole,  no  excuse  of  a  lack  of  witnesses 
or  proofs  to  support  Grant’s  charges.  I  am  confident  you 
will  agree  with  me  in  this.  I  am  collecting  data  for  pres¬ 
entation  to  the  investigators;  I  am  also  preparing  a  list  of 
volunteer  witnesses.  I  have  seventeen  numbers  on  my  range, 
and  others  from  various  parts  of  this  block  and  from  the  shops. 
They  all  seem  anxious  to  testify,  though  I  am  sure  some  will 
weaken  when  the  critical  moment  arrives.  Several  have  already 
notified  me  to  erase  their  names.  But  we  shall  have  a  suffi¬ 
cient  number  of  witnesses;  we  want  preferably  such  men  as 
have  personally  suffered  a  clubbing,  the  bull  ring,  hanging  by 
the  wrists,  or  other  punishment  forbidden  by  the  law. 

I  have  already  notified  the  Warden  that  I  wish  to  testify 
before  the  Investigation  Committee.  My  purpose  was  to  antici¬ 
pate  his  objection  that  there  are  already  enough  witnesses.  I  am 
the  first  on  the  list  now.  The  completeness  of  the  case  against 
the  authorities  will  surprise  you.  Fortunately,  my  position  as 
rangeman  has  enabled  me  to  gather  whatever  information  I 
needed.  I  will  send  you  to-morrow  duplicates  of  the  evidence 
(to  insure  greater  safety  for  our  material).  For  the  present  I 
append  a  partial  list  of  our  “exhibits” : 

(i)  Cigarettes  and  outside  tobacco;  bottle  of  whiskey  and  “dope”; 

dice,  playing  cards,  cash  money,  several  knives,  two  razors, 

postage  stamps,  outside  mail,  and  other  contraband.  (These 

are  for  the  purpose  of  proving  the  Warden  a  liar  in  denying 


HOW  SHALL  THE  DEPTHS  CRY? 


305 


to  the  press  the  existence  of  gambling  in  the  prison,  the 
selling  of  bakery  and  kitchen  provisions  for  cash,  the  pos¬ 
session  of  weapons,  and  the  possibility  of  underground  com¬ 
munication.) 

(2)  Prison-made  beer.  A  demonstration  of  the  staleness  of  our 
bread  and  the  absence  of  potatoes  in  the  soup.  (The  beer 
is  made  from  fermented  yeast  stolen  by  the  trusties  from 
the  bakery;  also  from  potatoes.) 

(3)  Favoritism;  special  privileges  of  trusties;  political  jobs;  the 
system  of  stool  espionage. 

(4)  Pennsylvania  diet;  basket;  dungeon;  cuffing  and  chaining 
up;  neglect  of  the  sick;  punishment  of  the  insane. 

(5)  Names  and  numbers  of  men  maltreated  and  clubbed. 

(6)  Data  of  assaults  and  cutting  affrays  in  connection  with  “kid- 
business,”  the  existence  of  which  the  Warden  absolutely 
denies. 

(7)  Special  case  of  A  444,  who  attacked  the  Warden  in  church, 
because  of  jealousy  of  “Lady  Goldie.” 

(8)  Graft: 

(a)  Hosiery  department :  fake  labels,  fictitious  names 
of  manufacture,  false  book  entries. 

(b)  Broom  shop :  convict  labor  hired  out,  contrary  to 
law,  to  Lang  Bros.,  broom  manufacturers,  of  Allegheny,  Pa. 
Goods  sold  to  the  United  States  Government,  through  sham 
middleman.  Labels  bear  legend,  “Union  Broom.”  Sample 
enclosed. 


V ALLEGHENY,  PA.  J 


306  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


(c)  Mats,  mattings,  mops — product  not  stamped. 

( d )  Shoe  and  tailor  shops:  prison  materials  used  for 
the  private  needs  of  the  Warden,  the  officers,  and  their 
families. 

(e)  $75,ooo,  appropriated  by  the  State  (1893)  for  a  new 
chapel.  The  bricks  of  the  old  building  used  for  the  new, 
except  one  outside  layer.  All  the  work  done  by  prisoners. 
Architect,  Mr.  A.  Wright,  the  Warden’s  son.  Actual  cost  of 
chapel,  $7,000.  The  inmates  forced  to  attend  services  to 
overcrowd  the  old  church;  after  the  desired  appropriation 
was  secured,  attendance  became  optional. 

(/)  Library:' the  25c.  tax,  exacted  from  every  unofficial 
visitor,  is  supposed  to  go  to  the  book  fund.  About  50  visitors 
per  day,  the  year  round.  No  new  books  added  to  the  library 
in  10  years.  Old  duplicates  donated  by  the  public  libraries 
of  Pittsburgh  are  catalogued  as  purchased  new  books. 

( g )  Robbing  the  prisoners  of  remuneration  for  their 
labor.  See  copy  of  Act  of  1883,  P.  L.  112. 

LAW  ON  PRISON  LABOR  AND  WAGES  OF  CONVICTS 

(Act  of  1883,  June  13th,  P.  L.  112) 

Section  1 — At  the  expiration  of  existing  contracts, 
Wardens  are  directed  to  employ  the  convicts  under  their 
control  for  and  in  behalf  of  the  State. 

Section  2 — No  labor  shall  be  hired  out  by  contract. 

Section  4 — All  convicts  under  the  control  of  the 
State  and  county  officers,  and  all  inmates  of  reformatory 
institutions  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  articles  for 
general  consumption,  shall  receive  quarterly  wages  equal 
to  the  amount  of  their  earnings,  to  be  fixed  from  time  to 
time  by  the  authorities  of  the  institution,  from  which 
board,  lodging,  clothing,  and  costs  of  trial  shall  be  de¬ 
ducted,  and  the  balance  paid  to  their  families  or  depend¬ 
ents;  in  case  none  such  appear,  the  amount  shall  be  paid 
to  the  convict  at  the  expiration  of  his  term  of  imprison¬ 
ment. 

The  prisoners  receive  no  payment  whatever,  even  for 
overtime  work,  except  occasionally  a  slice  of  pork  for  supper. 

K.  G.,  plant  this  and  other  material  I’ll  send  you,  in  a  safe 
place. 


M. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


HIDING  THE  EVIDENCE 
I 

It  is  New  Year’s  eve.  An  air  of  pleasant  anticipa¬ 
tion  fills  the  prison;  to-morrow’s  feast  is  the  exciting 
*  subject  of  conversation.  Roast  beef  will  be  served  for 
dinner,  with  a  goodly  loaf  of  currant  bread,  and  two 
cigars  for  dessert.  Extra  men  have  been  drafted  for  the 
kitchen;  they  flit  from  block  to  yard,  looking  busy  and 
important,  yet  halting  every  passer-by  to  whisper  with 
secretive  mien,  “Don’t  say  I  told  you.  Sweet  potatoes 
to-morrow !”  The  younger  inmates  seem  skeptical,  and 
strive  to  appear  indifferent,  the  while  they  hover  about 
the  yard  door,  nostrils  expanded,  sniffing  the  appetizing 
wafts  from  the  kitchen.  Here  and  there  an  old-timer 
grumbles :  we  should  have  had  sweet  “murphies”  for 
Christmas.  “  ‘Too  high-priced,’  Sandy  said,”  they  sneer 
in  ill  humor.  The  new  arrivals  grow  uneasy;  perhaps 
they  are  still  too  expensive?  Some  study  the  market 
quotations  on  the  delicacy.  But  the  chief  cook  drops  in 
to  visit  “his”  boy,  and  confides  to  the  rangeman  that 
the  sweet  potatoes  are  a  “sure  thing,”  just  arrived  and 
counted.  The  happy  news  is  whispered  about,  with  con¬ 
fident  assurance,  yet  tinged  with  anxiety.  There  is  great 
rejoicing  among  the  men.  Only  Sol,  the  lifer,  is  queru¬ 
lous  :  he  doesn’t  care  a  snap  about  the  “extra  feed” — stom¬ 
ach  still  sour  from  the  Christmas  dinner — and,  anyhow, 
it  only  makes  the  week-a-day  “grub”  more  disgusting. 

307 


308  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


The  rules  are  somewhat  relaxed.  The  hallmen  con¬ 
verse  freely;  the  yard  gangs  lounge  about  and  cluster 
in  little  groups,  that  separate  at  the  approach  of  a 
superior  officer.  Men  from  the  bakery  and  kitchen  run 
in  and  out  of  the  block,  their  pockets  bulging  suspiciously. 
“What  are  you  after?”  the  doorkeeper  halts  them.  “Oh, 
just  to  my  cell;  forgot  my  handkerchief.”  The  guard 
answers  the  sly  wink  with  an  indulgent  smile.  “All 
right;  go  ahead,  but  don’t  be  long.”  If  “Papa”  Mitchell 
is  about,  he  thunders  at  the  chief  cook,  his  bosom  swell¬ 
ing  with  packages:  “Wotch  ’er  got  there,  eh?  Big 
family  of  kids  you  have,  Jim.  First  thing  you  know, 
you’ll  swipe  the  hinges  off  th’  kitchen  door.”  The  envied 
bakery  and  kitchen  employees  supply  their  friends  with 
extra  holiday  tidbits,  and  the  solitaries  dance  in  glee  at 
the  sight  of  the  savory  dainty,  the  fresh  brown  bread 
generously  dotted  with  sweet  currants.  It  is  the  prelude 
of  the  promised  culinary  symphony. 

The  evening  is  cheerful  with  mirth  and  jollity.  The 
prisoners  at  first  converse  in  whispers,  then  become 
bolder,  and  talk  louder  through  the  bars.  As  night 
approaches,  the  cell-house  rings  with  unreserved  hilarity 
and  animation, — light-hearted  chaff  mingled  with  coarse 
jests  and  droll  humor.  A  wag  on  the  upper  tier  banters 
the  passing  guards,  his  quips  and  sallies  setting  the 
adjoining  cells  in  a  roar,  and  inspiring  imitation. 

Slowly  the  babel  of  tongues  subsides,  as  the  gong 
sounds  the  order  to  retire.  Some  one  shouts  to  a  distant 
friend,  “Hey,  Bill,  are  you  there?  Ye-es?  Stay  there!” 
It  grows  quiet,  when  suddenly  my  neighbor  on  the  left 
sing-songs,  “Fellers,  who’s  goin’  to  sit  up  with  me  to 
greet  New  Year’s?”  A  dozen  voices  yell  their  accept¬ 
ance.  “Little  Frenchy,”  the  spirited  grayhead  on  the 


HIDING  THE  EVIDENCE 


309 


top  tier,  vociferates  shrilly,  “Me,  too,  boys.  I’m  viz  you 
all  right.” 

All  is  still  in  the  cell-house,  save  for  a  wild  Indian 
whoop  now  and  then  by  the  vigil-keeping  boys.  The 
block  breathes  in  heavy  sleep ;  loud  snoring  sounds  from 
the  gallery  above.  Only  the  irregular  tread  of  the  felt- 
soled  guards  falls  muffled  in  the  silence. 


The  clock  in  the  upper  rotunda  strikes  the  midnight 
hour.  A  siren  on  the  Ohio  intones  its  deep-chested  bass. 
Another  joins  it,  then  another.  Shrill  factory  whistles 
pierce  the  boom  of  cannon;  the  sweet  chimes  of  a  near¬ 
by  church  ring  in  joyful  melody  between.  Instantly  the 
prison  is  astir.  Tin  cans  rattle  against  iron  bars,  doors 
shake  in  fury,  beds  and  chairs  squeak  and  screech,  pans 
slam  on  the  floor,  shoes  crash  against  the  walls  with  a 
dull  thud,  and  rebound  noisily  on  the  stone.  Unearthly 
yelling,  shouting,  and  whistling  rend  the  air ;  an  inventive 
prisoner  beats  a  wild  tattoo  with  a  tin  pan  on  the  table — 
a  veritable  Bedlam  of  frenzy  has  broken  loose  in  both 
wings.  The  prisoners  are  celebrating  the  advent  of  the 
New  Year. 


The  voices  grow  hoarse  and  feeble.  The  tin  clanks 
languidly  against  the  iron,  the  grating  of  the  doors  sounds 
weaker.  The  men  are  exhausted  with  the  unwonted 
effort.  The  guards  stumbled  up  the  galleries,  their 
forms  swaying  unsteadily  in  the  faint  flicker  of  the  gas¬ 
light.  In  maudlin  tones  they  command  silence,  and  bid 
the  men  retire  to  bed.  The  younger,  more  daring,  chal¬ 
lenge  the  order  with  husky  howls  and  catcalls, — a  defiant 
shout,  a  groan,  and  all  is  quiet. 


310  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Daybreak  wakes  the  turmoil  and  uproar.  For 
twenty-four  hours  the  long-repressed  animal  spirits  are 
rampant.  No  music  or  recreation  honors  the  New  Year; 
the  day  is  passed  in  the  cell.  The  prisoners,  securely 
barred  and  locked,  are  permitted  to  vent  their  pain  and 
sorrow,  their  yearnings  and  hopes,  in  a  Saturnalia  of 
tumult. 


II 

The  month  of  January  brings  sedulous  activity. 
Shops  and  block  are  overhauled,  every  nook  and  corner 
is  scoured,  and  a  special  squad  detailed  to  whitewash 
the  cells.  The  yearly  clean-up  not  being  due  till  spring, 
I  conclude  from  the  unusual  preparations  that  the 
expected  visit  of  the  Board  of  Charities  is  approaching. 

The  prisoners  are  agog  with  the  coming  investigation. 
The  solitaries  and  prospective  witnesses  are  on  the  qui 
vive,  anxious  lines  on  their  faces.  Some  manifest  fear 
of  the  ill  will  of  the  Warden,  as  the  probable  result  of 
their  testimony.  I  seek  to  encourage  them  by  promising 
to  assume  full  responsibility,  but  several  men  withdraw 
their  previous  consent.  The  safety  of  my  data  causes  me 
grave  concern,  in  view  of  the  increasing  frequency  of 
searches.  Deliberation  finally  resolves  itself  into  the 
bold  plan  of  secreting  my  most  valuable  material  in  the 
cell  set  aside  for  the  use  of  the  officers.  It  is  the  first 
cell  on  the  range;  it  is  never  locked,  and  is  ignored  at 
searches  because  it  is  not  occupied  by  prisoners.  The 
little  bundle,  protected  with  a  piece  of  oilskin  procured 
from  the  dispensary,  soon  reposes  in  the  depths  of  the 
waste  pipe.  A  stout  cord  secures  it  from  being  washed 
away  by  the  rush  of  water,  when  the  privy  is  in  use. 
I  call  Officer  Mitchell’s  attention  to  the  dusty  condition 


HIDING  THE  EVIDENCE 


311 

of  the  cell,  and  offer  to  sweep  it  every  morning  and 
afternoon.  He  accedes  in  an  offhand  manner,  and  twice 
daily  I  surreptitiously  examine  the  tension  of  the  water- 
soaked  cord,  renewing  the  string  repeatedly. 

Other  material  and  copies  of  my  “exhibits”  are  de¬ 
posited  with  several  trustworthy  friends  on  the  range. 
Everything  is  ready  for  the  investigation,  and  we  con¬ 
fidently  await  the  coming  of  the  Board  of  Charities. 

Ill 

The  cell-house  rejoices  at  the  absence  of  Scot  Woods. 
The  Block  Captain  of  the  morning  has  been  “reduced  to 
the  ranks.”  The  disgrace  is  signalized  by  his  appearance 
on  the  wall,  pacing  the  narrow  path  in  the  chilly  winter 
blasts.  The  guards  look  upon  the  assignment  as  “pun¬ 
ishment  duty”  for  incurring  the  displeasure  of  the 
Warden.  The  keepers  smile  at  the  indiscreet  Scot  inter¬ 
fering  with  the  self-granted  privileges  of  “Southside” 
Johnny,  one  of  the  Warden’s  favorites.  The  runner  who 
afforded  me  an  opportunity  to  see  Inspector  Nevin,  came 
out  victorious  in  the  struggle  with  Woods.  The  latter 
was  upbraided  by  Captain  Wright  in  the  presence  of 
Johnny,  who  is  now  officially  authorized  in  his  per¬ 
quisites.  Sufficient  time  was  allowed  to  elapse,  to  avoid 
comment,  whereupon  the  officer  was  withdrawn  from  the 
block. 

I  regret  his  absence.  A  severe  disciplinarian,  Woods 
was  yet  very  exceptional  among  the  guards,  in  that  he 
sought  to  discourage  the  spying  of  prisoners  on  each 
other.  He  frowned  upon  the  trusties,  and  strove  to 
treat  the  men  impartially. 

Mitchell  has  been  changed  to  the  morning  shift,  to 
fill  the  vacancy  made  by  the  transfer  of  Woods.  The 
charge  of  the  block  in  the  afternoon  devolves  upon  Offi- 


312  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


cer  Mcllvaine,  a  very  corpulent  man,  with  sharp,  steely 
eyes.  He  is  considerably  above  the  average  warder  in 
intelligence,  but  extremely  fond  of  Jasper,  who  now  acts 
as  his  assistant,  the  obese  turnkey  rarely  leaving  his  seat 
at  the  front  desk. 

v 

Changes  of  keepers,  transfers  from  the  shops  to  the 
two  cell-houses  are  frequent;  the  new  guards  are  alert 
and  active.  Almost  daily  the  Warden  visits  the  ranges, 
leaving  in  his  wake  more  stringent  discipline.  Rarely 
do  I  find  a  chance  to  pause  at  the  cells ;  I  keep  in  touch 
with  the  men  through  the  medium  of  notes.  But  one 
day,  several  fights  breaking  out  in  the  shops,  the  block 
officers  are  requisitioned  to  assist  in  placing  the  com¬ 
batants  in  the  punishment  cells.  The  front  is  deserted, 
and  I  improve  the  opportunity  to  talk  to  the  solitaries. 
Jasper,  “Southside,”  and  Bob  Runyon,  the  “politicians,” 
also  converse  at  the  doors,  Bob  standing  suspiciously 
close  to  the  bars.  Suddenly  Officer  Mcllvaine  appears 
in  the  yard  door.  His  face  is  flushed,  his  eyes  filling  with 
wrath  as  they  fasten  on  the  men  at  the  cells. 

“Hey,  you  fellows,  get  away  from  there !”  he  shouts. 
“Confound  you  all,  the  'Old  Man’  just  gave  me  the 
deuce;  too  much  talking  in  the  block.  I  won’t  stand 
for  it,  that’s  all,”  he  adds,  petulantly. 

Within  half  an  hour  I  am  haled  before  the  Warden. 
He  looks  worried,  deep  lines  of  anxiety  about  his  mouth. 

“You  are  reported  for  standing  at  the  doors,”  be 
snarls  at  me.  “What  are  you  always  telling  the  men?” 

“It’s  the  first  time  the  officer — ” 

“Nothing  of  the  kind,”  he  interrupts ;  “you’re  always 
talking  to  the  prisoners.  They  are  in  punishment,  and 
you  have  no  business  with  them.” 

“Why  was  I  picked  out?  Others  talk,  too.” 

“Ye-e-s?”  he  drawls  sarcastically;  then,  turning  to 


HIDING  THE  EVIDENCE 


313 


the  keeper,  he  says:  “How  is  that.  Officer?  The  man 
is  charging  you  with  neglect  of  duty.” 

“I  am  not -charging — ” 

“Silence!  What  have  you  to  say,  Mr.  Mcllvaine?” 

The  guard  reddens  with  suppressed  rage.  “It  isn’t 
true,  Captain,”  he  replies;  “there  was  no  one  except 
Berkman.” 

“You  hear  what  the  officer  says?  You  are  always 
breaking  the  rules.  You’re  plotting;  I  know  you, — 
pulling  a  dozen  wires.  You  are  inimical  to  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  the  institution.  But  I  will  break  your  connec¬ 
tions.  Officer,  take  him  directly  to  the  South  Wing,  you 
understand?  He  is  not  to  return  to  his  cell.  Have  it 
searched  at  once,  thoroughly.  Lock  him  up.” 

“Warden,  what  for?”  I  demand.  “I  have  not  done 
anything  to  lose  my  position.  Talking  is  not  such  a 
serious  charge.” 

“Very  serious,  very  serious.  You’re  too  dangerous 
on  the  range.  I’ll  spoil  your  infernal  schemes  by  remov¬ 
ing  you  from  the  North  Block.  You’ve  been  there  too 
long.” 

“I  want  to  remain  there.” 

“The  more  reason  to  take  you  away.  That  will  do 
now.” 

“No,  it  won’t,”  I  burst  out.  “I’ll  stay  where  I  am.” 

“Remove  him,  Mr.  Mcllvaine.” 

I  am  taken  to  the  South  Wing  and  locked  up  in  a 
vacant  cell,  neglected  and  ill-smelling.  It  is  Number  2, 
Range  M — the  first  gallery,  facing  the  yard;  a  “double” 
cell,  somewhat  larger  than  those  of  the  North  Block,  and 
containing  a  small  window.  The  walls  are  damp  and 
bare,  save  for  the  cardboard  of  printed  rules  and  the 
prison  calendar.  It  is  the  27th  of  February,  1896,  but 
the  calendar  is  of  last  year,  indicating  that  the  cell  has 
not  been  occupied  since  the  previous  November.  It 


314  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


contains  the  usual  furnishings :  bedstead  and  soiled  straw 
mattress,  a  small  table  and  a  chair.  It  feels  cold  and 
dreary. 

In  thought  I  picture  the  guards  ransacking  my  former 
cell.  They  will  not  discover  anything:  my  material  is 
well  hidden.  The  Warden  evidently  suspects  my  plans: 
he  fears  my  testimony  before  the  investigation  commit¬ 
tee.  My  removal  is  to  sever  my  connections,  and  now 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  reach  my  data.  I  must  return 
to  the  North  Block;  otherwise  all  our  plans  are  doomed 
to  fail.  I  can’t  leave  my  friends  on  the  range  in  the 
lurch :  some  of  them  have  already  signified  to  the  Chap¬ 
lain  their  desire  to  testify;  their  statements  will  remain 
unsupported  in  the  absence  of  my  proofs.  I  must  re¬ 
join  them.  I  have  told  the  Warden  that  I  shall  remain 
where  I  was,  but  he  probably  ignored  it  as  an  empty 
boast. 

I  consider  the  situation,  and  resolve  to  “break  up 
housekeeping.”  It  is  the  sole  means  of  being  trans¬ 
ferred  to  the  other  cell-house.  It  will  involve  the  loss 
of  the  grade,  and  a  trip  to  the  dungeon ;  perhaps  even  a 
fight  with  the  keepers :  the  guards,  fearing  the  broken 
furniture  will  be  used  for  defence,  generally  rush  the 
prisoner  with  blackjacks.  But  my  return  to  the  North 
Wing  will  be  assured, — no  man  in  stripes  can  remain  in 
the  South  Wing. 

Alert  for  an  approaching  step,  I  untie  my  shoes,  pro¬ 
ducing  a  scrap  of  paper,  a  pencil,  and  a  knife.  I  write 
a  hurried  note  to  “K,”  briefly  informing  him  of  the  new 
developments,  and  intimating  that  our  data  are  safe. 
Guardedly  I  attract  the  attention  of  the  runner  on  the 
floor  beneath;  it  is  Bill  Say,  through  whom  Carl  occa¬ 
sionally  communicates  with  “G.”  The  note  rolled  into 
a  little  ball,  I  shoot  between  the  bars  to  the  waiting 
prisoner.  Now  everything  is  prepared. 


HIDING  THE  EVIDENCE 


3r5 


It  is  near  supper  time;  the  men  are  coming  back  from 
work.  It  would  be  advisable  to  wait  till  everybody  is 
locked  in,  and  the  shop  officers  depart  home.  There  will 
then  be  only  three  guards  on  duty  in  the  block.  But  I 
am  in  a  fever  of  indignation  and  anger.  Furiously 
snatching  up  the  chair,  I  start  “breaking  up.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 

The  dungeon  smells  foul  and  musty;  the  darkness 
is  almost  visible,  the  silence  oppressive;  but  the  terror 
of  my  former  experience  has  abated.  I  shall  probably 
be  kept  in  the  underground  cell  for  a  longer  time  than 
on  the  previous  occasion, — my  offence  is  considered  very 
grave.  Three  charges  have  been  entered  against  me: 
destroying  State  property,  having  possession  of  a  knife, 
and  uttering  a  threat  against  the  Warden.  When  I 
saw  the  officers  gathering  at  my  back,  while  I  was  facing 
the  Captain,  I  realized  its  significance.  They  were  pre¬ 
paring  to  assault  me.  Quickly  advancing  to  the  War¬ 
den,  I  shook  my  fist  in  his  face,  crying: 

“If  they  touch  me,  I’ll  hold  you  personally  responsi¬ 
ble/’ 

He  turned  pale.  Trying  to  steady  his  voice,  he 
demanded : 

“What  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you?” 

“I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  won’t  be  clubbed.  My 
friends  will  avenge  me,  too.” 

He  glanced  at  the  guards  standing  rigid,  in  ominous 
silence.  One  by  one  they  retired,  only  two  remaining, 
and  I  was  taken  quietly  to  the  dungeon. 


The  stillness  is  broken  by  a  low,  muffled  sound.  I 
listen  intently.  It  is  some  one  pacing  the  cell  at  the 
further  end  of  the  passage. 

316 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


317 


“Halloo!  Who’s  there?”  I  shout. 

No  reply.  The  pacing  continues.  It  must  be  “Silent 
Nick” ;  he  never  talks. 

I  prepare  to  pass  the>  night  on  the  floor.  It  is  bare ; 
there  is  no  bed  or  blanket,  and  I  have  been  deprived  of 
my  coat  and  shoes.  It  is  freezing  in  the  cell;  my  feet 
grow  numb,  hands  cold,  as  I  huddle  in  the  corner,  my 
head  leaning  against  the  reeking  wall,  my  body  on  the 
stone  floor.  I  try  to  think,  but  my  thoughts  are  wan¬ 
dering,  my  brain  frigid. 

•  •••••  •• 

The  rattling  of  keys  wakes  me  from  my  stupor. 
Guards  are  descending  into  the  dungeon.  I  wonder 
whether  it  is  morning,  but  they  pass  my  cell:  it  is  not 
yet  breakfast  time.  Now  they  pause  and  whisper.  I 
recognize  the  mumbling  speech  of  Deputy  Greaves,  as 
he  calls  out  to  the  silent  prisoner : 

“Want  a  drink?” 

The  double  doors  open  noisily. 

“Here !” 

“Give  me  the  cup,”  the  hoarse  bass  resembles  that  of 
“Crazy  Smithy.”  His  stentorian  voice  sounds  cracked 
since  he  was  shot  in  the  neck  by  Officer  Dean. 

“You  can’t  have  th’  cup,”  the  Deputy  fumes. 

“I  won’t  drink  out  of  your  hand,  God  damn  you. 
Think  I’m  a  cur,  do  you?”  Smithy  swears  and  curses 
savagely. 

The  doors  are  slammed  and  locked.  The  steps  grow 
faint,  and  all  is  silent,  save  the  quickened  footfall  of 
Smith,  who  will  not  talk  to  any  prisoner. 

I  pass  the  long  night  in  drowsy  stupor,  rousing  at 
times  to  strain  my  ear  for  every  sound  from  the  rotunda 
above,  wondering  whether  day  is  breaking.  The  minutes 
drag  in  dismal  darkness.  .  .  . 


318  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


The  loud  clanking  of  the  keys  tingles  in  my  ears  like 
sweet  music.  It  is  morning!  The  guards  hand  me  the 
day’s  allowance — two  ounces  of  white  bread' and  a  quart 
of  water.  The  wheat  tastes  sweet ;  it  seems  to  me  I’ve 
never  eaten  anything  so  delectable.  But  the  liquid  is 
insipid,  and  nauseates  me.  At  almost  one  bite  I  swallow 
the  slice,  so  small  and  thin.  It  whets  my  appetite,  and  I 
feel  ravenously  hungry. 

At  Smith’s  door  the  scene  of  the  previous  evening 
is  repeated.  The  Deputy  insists  that  the  man  drink  out 
of  the  cup  held  by  a  guard.  The  prisoner  refuses,  with 
a  profuse  flow  of  profanity.  Suddenly  there  is  a  splash, 
followed  by  a  startled  cry,  and  the  thud  of  the  cell 
bucket  on  the  floor.  Smith  has  emptied  the  contents  of 
his  privy  upon  the  officers.  In  confusion  they  rush  out 
of  the  dungeon. 

Presently  I  hear  the  clatter  of  many  feet  in  the  cellar. 
There  is  a  hubbub  of  suppressed  voices.  I  recognize 
the  rasping  whisper  of  Hopkins,  the  tones  of  Woods, 
Mcllvaine,  and  others.  I  catch  the  words,  “Both  sides 
at  once.”  Several  cells  in  the  dungeon  are  provided 
with  double  entrances,  front  and  back,  to  facilitate  at¬ 
tacks  upon  obstreperous  prisoners.  Smith  is  always 
assigned  to  one  of  these  cells.  I  shudder  as  I  realize 
that  the  officers  are  preparing  to  club  the  demented  man. 
He  has  been  weakened  by  years  of  unbroken  solitary 
confinement,  and  his  throat  still  bleeds  occasionally  from 
the  bullet  wound.  Almost  half  his  time  he  has  been  kept 
in  the  dungeon,  and  now  he  has  been  missing  from  the 
range  twelve  days.  It  is  ...  .  Involuntarily  I  shut  my 
eyes  at  the  fearful  thud  of  the  riot  clubs. 

•  •••••  •• 

The  hours  drag  on.  The  monotony  is  broken  by  the 
keepers  bringing  another;  prisoner  to  the  dungeon.  I 
hear  his  violent  sobbing  from  the  depth  of  the  cavern. 


* 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


319 


“Who  is  there?”  I  hail  him.  I  call  repeatedly,  without 
receiving  an  answer.  Perhaps  the  new  arrival  is  afraid 
of  listening  guards. 

“Ho,  man !”  I  sing  out,  “the  screws  have  gone.  Who 
are  you?  This  is  Aleck,  Aleck  Berkman.” 

'  “Is  that  you,  Aleck?  This  is  Johnny.”  There  is  a 
familiar  ring  about  the  young  voice,  broken  by  piteous 
moans.  But  I  fail  to  identify  it. 

“What  Johnny?” 

“Johnny  Davis — you  know — stocking  shop.  I’ve  just 
— killed  a  man.” 

In  bewilderment  I  listen  to  the  story,  told  with  bursts 
of  weeping.  Johnny  had  returned  to  the  shop;  he 
thought  he  would  try  again :  he  wanted  to  earn  his  “good” 
time.  Things  went  well  for  a  while,  till  “Dutch”  Adams 
became  shop  runner.  He  is  the  stool  who  got  Grant  and 
Johnny  Smith  in  trouble  with  the  fake  key,  and  Davis 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  But  “Dutch”  per¬ 
sisted,  pestering  him  all  the  time;  and  then — 

“Well,  you  know,  Aleck,”  the  boy  seems  diffident,  “he 
lied  about  me  like  hell :  he  told  the  fellows  he  used  me. 
Christ,  my  mother  might  hear  about  it !  I  couldn’t  stand 
it,  Aleck ;  honest  to  God,  I  couldn’t.  I — I  killed  the  lying 
cur,  an’  now — now  I’ll — I’ll  swing  for  it,”  he  sobs  as 
if  his  heart  would  break. 

A  touch  of  tenderness  for  the  poor  boy  is  in  my 
voice,  as  I  strive  to  condole  with  him  and  utter  the 
hope  that  it  may  not  be  so  bad,  after  all.  Perhaps  Adams 
will  not  die.  He  is  a  powerful  man,  big  and  strong;  he 
may  survive. 

Johnny  eagerly  clutches  at  the  straw.  He  grows  more 
1  cheerful,  and  we  talk  of  the  coming  investigation  and 
local  affairs.  Perhaps  the  Board  will  even  clear  him,  he 
suggests.  But  suddenly  seized  with  fear,  he  weeps  and 

moans  again. 


3-0  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


More  men  are  cast  into  the  dungeon.  They  bring 
news  from  the  world  above.  An  epidemic  of  fighting 
seems  to  have  broken  out  in  the  wake  of  recent  orders. 
The  total  inhibition  of  talking  is  resulting  in  more  serious 
offences.  “Kid  Tommy”  is  enlarging  upon  his  trouble. 
“You  see,  fellers,”  he  cries  in  a  treble,  “dat  skunk  of  a 
Pete  he  pushes  me  in  de  line,  and  I  turns  round  t’  give 
’im  hell,  but  de  screw  pipes  me.  Got  no  chance  t’  choo, 
so  I  turns  an’  biffs  him  on  de  jaw,  see?”  But  he  is 
sure,  he  says,  to  be  let  out  at  night,  or  in  the  morning, 
at  most.  “Them  fellers  that  was  scrapping  yesterday 
in  de  yard  didn’t  go  to  de  hole.  Dey  jest  put  ’em  in  de 
cell.  Sandy  knows  de  committee  ’s  cornin’  all  right.” 

Johnny  interrupts  the  loquacious  boy  to  inquire 
anxiously  about  “Dutch”  Adams,  and  I  share  his  joy  at 
hearing  that  the  man’s  wound  is  not  serious.  He  was 
cut  about  the  shoulders,  but  was  able  to  walk  unassisted 
to  the  hospital.  Johnny  overflows  with  quiet  happiness; 
the  others  dance  and  sing.  I  recite  a  poem  from  Nekras- 
sov;  the  boys  don’t  understand  a  word,  but  the  sorrow¬ 
laden  tones  appeal  to  them,  and  they  request  more  Rus¬ 
sian  “pieces.”  But  Tommy  is  more  interested  in  politics, 
and  is  bristling  with  the  latest  news  from  the  Magee 
camp.  He  is  a  great  admirer  of  Quay, — “dere’s  a  smart 
guy  fer  you,  fellers;  owns  de  whole  Keystone  shebang 
all  right,  all  right.  He’s  Boss  Quay,  you  bet  you.”  He 
dives  into  national  issues,  rails  at  Bryan,  “16  to  i  Bill, 
you  jest  list’n  to  ’m,  he’ll  give  sixteen  dollars  to  every 
one;  he  will,  nit!”  and  the  boys  are  soon  involved  in  a 
heated  discussion  of  the  respective  merits  of  the  two 
political  parties,  Tommy  staunchly  siding  with  the  Re¬ 
publican.  “Me  gran’fader  and  me  fader  was  Republi¬ 
cans,”  he  vociferates,  “an’  all  me  broders  vote  de  ticket. 
Me  fer  de  Gran’  Ole  Party,  ev’ry  time.”  Some  one 
twits  him  on  his  political  wisdom,  challenging  the  boy 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


321 


to  explain  the  difference  in  the  money  standards.  Tom¬ 
my  boldly  appeals  to  me  to  corroborate  him;  but  before 
I  have  an  opportunity  to  speak,  he  launches  upon  other 
issues,  berating  Spain  for  her  atrocities  in  Cuba,  and 
insisting  that  this  free  country  cannot  tolerate  slavery 
at  its  doors.  Every  topic  is  discussed,  with  Tommy 
orating  at  top  speed,  and  continually  broaching  new  sub¬ 
jects.  Unexpectedly  he  reverts  to  local  affairs,  waxes 
reminiscent  over  former  days,  and  loudly  smacks  his 
lips  at  the  “great  feeds”  he  enjoyed  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  was  free  to  roam  the  back  streets  of  Smoky  City. 
“Say,  Aleck,  my  boy,”  he  calls  to  me  familiarly,  “many 
a  penny  I  made  on  you ,  all  right.  How  ?  Why,  peddlin' 
extras,  of  course!  Say,  dem  was  fine  days,  all  right; 
easy  money;  papers  went  like  hot  cakes  off  the  griddle. 
Wish  you’d  do  it  agin,  Aleck.” 

Invisible  to  each  other,  we  chat,  exchange  stories 
and  anecdotes,  the  boys  talking  incessantly,  as  if  fearful 
of  silence.  But  every  now  and  then  there  is  a  lull ;  we 
become  quiet,  each  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts.  The 
pauses  lengthen — lengthen  into  silence.  Only  the  faint 
steps  of  “Crazy  Smith”  disturb  the  deep  stillness. 


Late  in  the  evening  the  young  prisoners  are  relieved. 
But  Johnny  remains,  and  his  apprehensions  reawaken. 
Repeatedly  during  the  night  he  rouses  me  from  my 
drowsy  torpor  to  be  reassured  that  he  is  not  in  danger 
of  the  gallows,  and  that  he  will  not  be  tried  for  his 
assault.  I  allay  his  fears  by  dwelling  on  the  Warden’s 
aversion  to  giving  publicity  to  the  sex  practices  in  the 
prison,  and  remind  the  boy  of  the  Captain’s  official  denial 
of  their  existence.  These  things  happen  almost  every 


322  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


week,  yet  no  one  has  ever  been  taken  to  court  from 
Riverside  on  such  charges. 

Johnny  grows  more  tranquil,  and  we  converse  about 
his  family  history,  talking  in  a  frank,  confidential  man¬ 
ner.  With  a  glow  of  pleasure,  I  become  aware  of  the 
note  of  tenderness  in  his  voice.  Presently  he  surprises 
me  by  asking: 

“Friend  Aleck,  what  do  they  call  you  in  Russian?” 

He  prefers  the  fond  “Sashenka,”  enunciating  the 
strange  word  with  quaint  endearment,  then  diffidently 
confesses  dislike  for  his  own  name,  and  relates  the  story 
he  had  recently  read  of  a  poor  castaway  Cuban  youth; 
Felipe  was  his  name,  and  he  was  just  like  himself. 

“Shall  I  call  you  Felipe?”  I  offer. 

“Yes,  please  do,  Aleck,  dear;  no,  Sashenka.” 

The  springs  of  affection  well  up  within  me,  as  I  lie 
huddled  on  the  stone  floor,  cold  and  hungry.  With 
closed  eyes,  I  picture  the  boy  before  me,  with  his  delicate 
face,  and  sensitive,  girlish  lips. 

“Good  night,  dear  Sashenka,”  he  calls. 

“Good  night,  little  Felipe.” 

In  the  morning  we  are  served  with  a  slice  of  bread 
and  water.  I  am  tormented  by  thirst  and  hunger,  and 
the  small  ration  fails  to  assuage  my  sharp  pangs. 
Smithy  still  refuses  to  drink  out  of  the  Deputy’s  hand; 
his  doors  remain  unopened.  With  tremulous  anxiety 
Johnny  begs  the  Deputy  Warden  to  tell  him  how  much 
longer  he  will  remain  in  the  dungeon,  but  Greaves  curtly 
commands  silence,  applying  a  vile  epithet  to  the  boy. 

“Deputy,”  I  call,  boiling  over  with  indignation,  “he 
asked  you  a  respectful  question.  I’d  give  him  a  decent 
answer.” 

“You  mind  your  own  business,  you  hear?”  he  retorts. 

But  I  persist  in  defending  my  young  friend,  and 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


323 


berate  the  Deputy  for  his  language.  He  hastens  away 
in  a  towering  passion,  menacing  me  with  “what  Smithy 
got.” 

Johnny  is  distressed  at  being  the  innocent  cause  of 
the  trouble.  The  threat  of  the  Deputy  disquiets  him, 
and  he  warns  me  to  prepare.  My  cell  is  provided  with 
a  double  entrance,  and  I  am  apprehensive  of  a  sudden 
attack.  But  the  hours  pass  without  the  Deputy  return¬ 
ing,  and  our  fears  are  allayed.  The  boy  rejoices  on  my 
account,  and  brims  over  with  appreciation  of  my  inter¬ 
cession. 

The  incident  cements  our  intimacy;  our  first  diffi¬ 
dence  disappears,  and  we  become  openly  tender  and 
affectionate.  The  conversation  lags :  we  feel  weak  and 
worn.  But  every  little  while  we  hail  each  other  with 
words  of  encouragement.  Smithy  incessantly  paces  the 
cell ;  the  gnawing  of  the  river  rats  reaches  our  ears ;  the 
silence  is  frequently  pierced  by  the  wild  yells  of  the 
insane  man,  startling  us  with  dread  foreboding.  The 
quiet  grows  unbearable,  and  Johnny  calls  again: 

“What  are  you  doing,  Sashenka?” 

“Oh,  nothing.  Just  thinking,  Felipe.” 

“Am  I  in  your  thoughts,  dear?” 

“Yes,  kiddie,  you  are.” 

“Sasha,  dear,  I’ve  been  thinking,  too.” 

“What,  Felipe?” 

“You  are  the  only  one  I  care  for.  I  haven’t  a  friend 
in  the  whole  place.” 

“Do  you  care  much  for  me,  Felipe?” 

“Will  you  promise  not  to  laugh  at  me,  Sashenka?” 

“I  wouldn’t  laugh  at  you.” 

“Cross  your  hand  over  your  heart.  Got  it,  Sasha?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,  I’ll  tell  you.  I  was  thinking — how  shall  I  tell 


324  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


you?  I  was  thinking,  Sashenka — if  you  were  here  with 
me — I  would  like  to  kiss  you.” 

An  unaccountable  sense  of  joy  glows  in  my  heart, 
and  I  muse  in  silence. 

“What’s  the  matter,  Sashenka?  Why  don’t  you  say 
something?  Are  you  angry  with  me?” 

“No,  Felipe,  you  foolish  little  boy.” 

“You  are  laughing  at  me.” 

“No,  dear:  I  feel  just  as  you  do.” 

“Really  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  Sashenka.” 

In  the  evening  the  guards  descend  to  relieve  Johnny ; 
he  is  to  be  transferred  to  the  basket,  they  inform  him. 
On  the  way  past  my  cell,  he  whispers  :  “Hope  I’ll  see  you 
soon,  Sashenka.”  A  friendly  officer  knocks  on  the  outer 
blind  door  of  my  cell.  “That  you  thar,  Berkman?  You 
want  to  b’have  to  th’  Dep’ty.  He’s  put  you  down  for  two 
more  days  for  sassin’  him.” 

I  feel  more  lonesome  at  the  boy’s  departure.  The 
silence  grows  more  oppressive,  the  hours  of  darkness 
heavier. 

Seven  days  I  remain  in  the  dungeon.  At  the  ex¬ 
piration  of  the  week,  feeling  stiff  and  feeble,  I  totter 
behind  the  guards,  on  the  way  to  the  bathroom.  My 
body  looks  strangely  emaciated,  reduced  almost  to  a 
skeleton.  The  pangs  of  hunger  revive  sharply  with  the 
shock  of  the  cold  shower,  and  the  craving  for  tobacco 
is  overpowering  at  the  sight  of  the  chewing  officers.  I 
look  forward  to  being  placed  in  a  cell,  quietly  exulting 
at  my  victory  as  I  am  led  to  the  North  Wing.  But,  in 
the  cell-house,  the  Deputy  Warden  assigns  me  to  the 
lower  end  of  Range  A,  insane  department.  Exasperated 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


325 


by  the  terrible  suggestion,  my  nerves  on  edge  with  the 
dungeon  experience,  I  storm  in  furious  protest,  demand¬ 
ing  to  be  returned  to  “the  hole.”  The  Deputy,  startled 
by  my  violence,  attempts  to  soothe  me,  and  finally  yields. 
I  am  placed  in  Number  35,  the  “crank  row”  beginning 
several  cells  further. 

Upon  the  heels  of  the  departing  officers,  the  range- 
man  is  at  my  door,  bursting  with  the  latest  news.  The 
investigation  is  over,  the  Warden  whitewashed!  For 
an  instant  I  am  aghast,  failing  to  grasp  the  astounding 
situation.  Slowly  its  full  significance  dawns  on  me,  as 
Bill  excitedly  relates  the  story.  It’s  the  talk  of  the 
prison.  The  Board  of  Charities  had  chosen  its  Secre¬ 
tary,  J.  Francis  Torrance,  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Warden,  to  conduct  the  investigation.  As  a  precaution¬ 
ary  measure,  I  was  kept  several  additional  days  in  the 
dungeon.  Mr.  Torrance  has  privately  interviewed 
“Dutch”  Adams,  Young  Smithy,  and  Bob  Runyon, 
promising  them  their  full  commutation  time,  notwith¬ 
standing  their  bad  records,  and  irrespective  of  their 
future  behavior.  They  were  instructed  by  the  Secretary 
to  corroborate  the  management,  placing  all  blame  upon 
me !  No  other  witnesses  were  heard.  The  “investiga¬ 
tion”  was  over  within  an  hour,  the  committee  of  one 
retiring  for  dinner  to  the  adjoining  residence  of  the 
Warden. 

Several  friendly  prisoners  linger  at  my  cell  during 
the  afternoon,  corroborating  the  story  of  the  rangeman, 
and  completing  the  details.  The  cell-house  itself  bears 
out  the  situation ;  the  change  in  the  personnel  of  the  men 
is  amazing.  “Dutch”  Adams  has  been  promoted  to  mes¬ 
senger  for  the  “front  office,”  the  most  privileged  “polit¬ 
ical”  job  in  the  prison.  Bob  Runyon,  a  third-timer  and 
notorious  “kid  man,”  has  been  appointed  a  trusty  in  the 
shops.  But  the  most  significant  cue  is  the  advancement 


326  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


of  Young  Smithy  to  the  position  of  rangeman.  He  has 
but  recently  been  sentenced  to  a  year’s  solitary  for  the 
broken  key  discovered  in  the  lock  of  his  door.  His 
record  is  of  the  worst.  He  is  a  young  convict  of  ex¬ 
tremely  violent  temper,  who  has  repeatedly  attacked 
fellow-prisoners  with  dangerous  weapons.  Since  his 
murderous  assault  upon  the  inoffensive  “Praying  Andy,” 
Smithy  was  never  permitted  out  of  his  cell  without  the 
escort  of  two  guards.  And  now  this  irresponsible  man 
is  in  charge  of  a  range! 

At  supper,  Young  Smithy  steals  up  to  my  cell,  bring¬ 
ing  a  slice  of  cornbread.  I  refuse  the  peace  offering,  and 
charge  him  with  treachery.  At  first  he  stoutly  protests 
his  innocence,  but  gradually  weakens  and  pleads  his 
dire  straits  in  mitigation.  Torrance  had  persuaded  him 
to  testify,  but  he  avoided  incriminating  me.  That  was 
done  by  the  other  two  witnesses;  he  merely  exonerated 
the  Warden  from  the  charges  preferred  by  James  Grant. 
He  had  been  clubbed  four  times,  but  he  denied  to  the 
committee  that  the  guards  practice  violence ;  and  he 
supported  the  Warden  in  his  statement  that  the  officers 
are  not  permittted  to  carry  clubs  or  blackjacks.  He 
feels  that  an  injustice  has  been  done  me,  and  now  that 
he  occupies  my  former  position,  he  will  be  able  to  repay 
the  little  favors  I  did  him  when  he  was  in  solitary. 

Indignantly  I  spurn  his  offer.  He  pleads  his  youth, 
the  torture  of  the  cell,  and  begs  my  forgiveness ;  but  I  am 
bitter  at  his  treachery,  and  bid  him  go. 

Officer  Mcllvaine  pauses  at  my  door.  “Oh,  what 
a  change,  what  an  awful  change !”  he  exclaims,  pityingly. 
I  don’t  know  whether  he  refers  to  my  appearance,  or  to 
the  loss  of  range  liberty;  but  I  resent  his  tone  of  com¬ 
miseration  ;  it  was  he  who  had  selected  me  as  a  victim,  to 


LOVE’S  DUNGEON  FLOWER 


327 


be  reported  for  talking.  Angrily  I  turn  my  back  to  him, 
refusing  to  talk. 

Somebody  stealthily  pushes  a  bundle  of  newspapers 
between  the  bars.  Whole  columns  detail  the  report  of 
the  “investigation,”  completely  exonerating  Warden  Ed¬ 
ward  S.  Wright.  The  base  charges  against  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  the  penitentiary  were  the  underhand  work  of 
Anarchist  Berkman,  Mr.  Torrance  assured  the  press. 
One  of  the  papers  contains  a  lengthy  interview  with 
Wright,  accusing  me  of  fostering  discontent  and  in¬ 
subordination  among  the  men.  The  Captain  expresses 
grave  fear  for  the  safety  of  the  community,  should  the 
Pardon  Board  reduce  my  sentence,  in  view  of  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  that  my  lawyers  are  preparing  to  renew  the 
application  at  the  next  session. 

In  great  agitation  I  pace  the  cell.  The  statement  of 
the  Warden  is  fatal  to  the  hope  of  a  pardon.  My  life 
in  the  prison  will  now  be  made  still  more  unbearable. 
I  shall  again  be  locked  in  solitary.  With  despair  I  think 
of  my  fate  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and  the  sense 
of  my  utter  helplessness  overpowers  me. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


FOR  SAFETY 


Dear  K. : 

I  know  you  must  have  been  worried  about  me.  Give  no 
credence  to  the  reports  you  hear.  I  did  not  try  to  suicide.  I 
was  very  nervous  and  excited  over  the  things  that  happened 
while  I  was  in  the  dungeon.  I  saw  the  papers  after  I  came  up 
— you  know  what  they  said.  I  couldn’t  sleep;  I  kept  pacing 
the  floor.  The  screws  were  hanging  about  my  cell,  but  I  paid 
no  attention  to  them.  They  spoke  to  me,  but  I  wouldn’t  answer: 
I  was  in  no  mood  for  talking.  They  must  have  thought  some¬ 
thing  wrong  with  me.  The  doctor  came,  and  felt  my  pulse,  and 
they  took  me  to  the  hospital.  The  Warden  rushed  in  and  ordered 
me  into  a  strait- jacket.  “For  safety,”  he  said. 

You  know  Officer  Erwin;  he  put  the  jacket  on  me.  He’s  a 
pretty  decent  chap;  I  saw  he  hated  to  do  it.  But  the  evening 
screw  is  a  rat.  He  called  three  times  during  the  night,  and 
every  time  he’d  tighten  the  straps.  I  thought  he’d  cut  my  hands 
off;  but  I  wouldn’t  cry  for  mercy,  and  that  made  him  wild. 
They  put  me  in  the  “full  size”  jacket  that  winds  all  around  you, 
the  arms  folded.  They  laid  me,  tied  in  the  canvas,  on  the  bed, 
bound  me  to  it  feet  and  chest,  with  straps  provided  with  pad¬ 
locks.  I  was  suffocating  in  the  hot  ward ;  could  hardly  breathe. 
In  the  morning  they  unbound  me.  My  legs  were  paralyzed, 
and  I  could  not  stand  up.  The  doctor  ordered  some 
medicine  for  me.  The  head  nurse  (he’s  in  for  murder,  and 
he’s  rotten)  taunted  me  with  the  “black  bottle.”  Every  time 
he  passed  my  bed,  he’d  say:  “You  still  alive?  Wait  till  I  fix 
something  up  for  you.”  I  refused  the  medicine,  and  then  they 
took  me  down  to  the  dispensary,  lashed  me  to  a  chair,  and  used 
the  pump  on  me.  You  can  imagine  how  I  felt.  That  went  on 
for  a  week;  every  night  in  the  strait- jacket,  every  morning 
the  pump.  Now  I  am  back  in  the  block,  in  6  A.  A  peculiar 

328 


FOR  SAFETY 


329 


coincidence, — it’s  the  same  cell  I  occupied  when  I  first  came 
here. 

Don’t  trust  Bill  Say.  The  Warden  told  me  he  knew  about 
the  note  I  sent  you  just  before  I  smashed  up.  If  you  got  it, 
Bill  must  have  read  it  and  told  Sandy.  Only  dear  old  Horsethief 
can  be  relied  upon. 

How  near  the  boundary  of  joy  is  misery!  I  shall  never 
forget  the  first  morning  in  the  jacket.  I  passed  a  restless  night, 
but  just  as  it  began  to  dawn  I  must  have  lost  consciousness. 
Suddenly  I  awoke  with  the  most  exquisite  music  in  my  ears. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  heavens  had  opened  in  a  burst  of 
ecstasy.  ...  It  was  only  a  little  sparrow,  but  never  before  in 
my  life  did  I  hear  such  sweet  melody.  I  felt  murder  in  my 
heart  when  the  convict  nurse  drove  the  poor  birdie  from  the 
window  ledge. 


A. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


DREAMS  OF  FREEDOM 

I 

Like  an  endless  miserere  are  the  days  in  the  solitary. 
No  glimmer  of  light  cheers  the  to-morrows.  In  the 
depths  of  suffering,  existence  becomes  intolerable;  and 
as  of  old,  I  seek  refuge  in  the  past.  The  stages  of  my 
life  reappear  as  the  acts  of  a  drama  which  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  cut  short.  The  possibilities  of  the  dark 
motive  compel  the  imagination,  and  halt  the  thought 
of  destruction.  Misery  magnifies  the  estimate  of  self; 
the  vehemence  of  revolt  strengthens  to  endure.  Despair 
engenders  obstinate  resistance ;  in  its  spirit  hope  is 
trembling.  Slowly  it  assumes  more  definite  shape : 
escape  is  the  sole  salvation.  The  world  of  the  living 
is  dim  and  unreal  with  distance;  its  voice  reaches  me 
like  the  pale  echo  of  fantasy ;  the  thought  of  its  turbulent 
vitality  is  strange  with  apprehension.  But  the  present 
is  bitter  with  wretchedness,  and  gasps  desperately  for 
relief. 

The  efforts  of  my  friends  bring  a  glow  of  warmfh 
into  my  life.  The  indefatigable  Girl  has  succeeded  in 
interesting  various  circles :  she  is  gathering  funds  for  my 
application  for  a  rehearing  before  the  Pardon  Board  in 
the  spring  of  ’98,  when  my  first  sentence  of  seven  years 
will  have  expired.  With  a  touch  of  old-time  tenderness, 
I  think  of  her  loyalty,  her  indomitable  perseverance  in 

330 


DREAMS  OF  FREEDOM 


331 


my  behalf.  It  is  she,  almost  she  alone,  who  has  kept 
my  memory  green  throughout  the  long  years.  Even 
Fedya,  my  constant  chum,  has  been  swirled  into  the 
vortex  of  narrow  ambition  and  self-indulgence,  the 
plaything  of  commonplace  fate. 

Resentment  at  being  thus  lightly  forgotten  tinges  my 
thoughts  of  the  erstwhile  twin  brother  of  our  ideal- 
kissed  youth.  By  contrast,  the  Girl  is  silhouetted  on  my 
horizon  as  the  sole  personification  of  revolutionary  per¬ 
sistence,  the  earnest  of  its-  realization.  Beyond,  all  is 
darkness — the  mystic  world  of  falsehood  and  sham,  that 
will  hate  and  persecute  me  even  as  its  brutal  high  priests 
in  the  prison.  Here  and  there  the  gloom  is  rent:  an 
unknown  sympathizer,  or  comrade,  sends  a  greeting; 
I  pore  eagerly  over  the  chirography,  and  from  the  clear, 
decisive  signature,  “Voltairine  de  Cleyre,”  strive  to 
mold  the  character  and  shape  the  features  of  the 
writer.  To  the  Girl  I  apply  to  verify  my  “reading,” 
and  rejoice  in  the  warm  interest  of  the  convent-educated 
American,  a  friend  of  my  much-admired  Comrade  Dyer 
D.  Lum,  who  is  aiding  the  Girl  in  my  behalf. 

But  the  efforts  for  a  rehearing  wake  no  hope  in  my 
heart.  My  comrades,  far  from  the  prison  world,  do  not 
comprehend  the  full  significance  of  the  situation  resulting 
from  the  investigation.  My  underground  connections  are 
paralyzed;  I  cannot  enlighten  the  Girl.  But  Nold  and 
Bauer  are  on  the  threshold  of  liberty.  Within  two 
months  Carl  will  carry  my  message  to  New  York.  I  can 
fully  rely  on  his  discretion  and  devotion ;  we  have  grown 
very  intimate  through  common  suffering.  He  will  in¬ 
form  the  Girl  that  nothing  is  to  be  expected  from  legal 
procedure ;  instead,  he  will  explain  to  her  the  plan  I  have 
evolved. 

My  position  as  rangeman  nas  served  me  to  good 
advantage.  I  have  thoroughly  familiarized  myself  with 


332  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  institution;  I  have  gathered  information  and  ex¬ 
plored  every  part  of  the  cell-house  offering  the  least 
likelihood  of  an  escape.  The  prison  is  almost  impreg¬ 
nable;  Tom’s  attempt  to  scale  the  wall  proved  disastrous, 
in  spite  of  his  exceptional  opportunities  as  kitchen  em¬ 
ployee,  and  the  thick  fog  of  the  early  morning.  Several 
other  attempts  also  were  doomed  to  failure,  the  great 
number  of  guards  and  their  vigilance  precluding  success. 
No  escape  has  taken  place  since  the  days  of  Paddy 
McGraw,  before  the  completion  of  the  prison.  Entirely 
new  methods  must  be  tried:  the  road  to  freedom  leads 
underground!  But  digging  out  of  the  prison  is  im¬ 
practicable  in  the  modern  structure  of  steel  and  rock. 
We  must  force  a  passage  into  the  prison:  the  tunnel  is 
to  be  dug  from  the  outside !  A  house  is  to  be  rented  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  penitentiary,  and  the  under¬ 
ground  passage  excavated  beneath  the  eastern  wall, 
toward  the  adjacent  bath-house.  No  officers  frequent 
the  place  save  at  certain  hours,  and  I  shall  find  an  op¬ 
portunity  to  disappear  into  the  hidden  opening  on  the 
regular  biweekly  occasions  when  the  solitaries  are  per¬ 
mitted  to  bathe. 

The  project  will  require  careful  preparation  and 
considerable  expense.  Skilled  comrades  will  have  to 
be  entrusted  with  the  secret  work,  the  greater  part  of 
which  must  be  carried  on  at  night.  Determination  and 
courage  will  make  the  plan  feasible,  successful.  Such 
things  have  been  done  before.  Not  in  this  country,  it 
is  true.  But  the  act  will  receive  added  significance  from 
the  circumstance  that  the  liberation  of  the  first  American 
political  prisoner  has  been  accomplished  by  means  sim¬ 
ilar  to  those  practised  by  our  comrades  in  Russia.  Who 
knows?  It  may  prove  the  symbol  and  precursor  of 
Russian  idealism  on  American  soil.  And  what  tre¬ 
mendous  impression  the  consummation  of  the  bold  plan 


DREAMS  OF  FREEDOM 


33.3 


will  make!  What  a  stimulus  to  our  propaganda,  as 
a  demonstration  of  Anarchist  initiative  and  ability ! 
I  glow  with  the  excitement  of  its  great  possibilities, 
and  enthuse  Carl  with  my  hopes.  If  the  preparatory 
work  is  hastened,  the  execution  of  the  plan  will  be  facil¬ 
itated  by  the  renewed  agitation  within  the  prison.  Ru¬ 
mors  of  a  legislative  investigation  are  afloat,  diverting 
the  thoughts  of  the  administration  into  different  chan¬ 
nels.  I  shall  foster  the  ferment  to  afford  my  comrades 
greater  safety  in  the  work. 

During  the  long  years  of  my  penitentiary  life  I  have 
formed  many  friendships.  I  have  earned  the  reputation 
of  a  “square  man”  and  a  “good  fellow,”  have  received 
many  proofs  of  confidence,  and  appreciation  of  my 
uncompromising  attitude  toward  the  generally  execrated 
management.  Most  of  my  friends  observe  the  unwritten 
ethics  of  informing  me  of  their  approaching  release,  and 
offer  to  smuggle  out  messages  or  to  provide  me  with 
little  comforts.  I  invariably  request  them  to  visit  the 
newspapers  and  to  relate  their  experiences  in  Riverside. 
Some  express  fear  of  the  Warden’s  enmity,  of  the  fatal 
consequences  in  case  of  their  return  to  the  penitentiary. 
But  the  bolder  spirits  and  the  accidental  offenders,  who 
confidently  bid  me  a  final  good-bye,  unafraid  of  return, 
call  directly  from  the  prison  on  the  Pittsburgh  editors. 

Presently  the  Leader  and  the  Dispatch  begin  to  voice 
their  censure  of  the  hurried  whitewash  by  the  State 
Board  of  Charities.  The  attitude  of  the  press  encour¬ 
ages  the  guards  to  manifest  their  discontent  with  the 
humiliating  eccentricities  of  the  senile  Warden.  They 
protest  against  the  whim  subjecting  them  to  military 
drill  to  improve  their  appearance,  and  resent  Captain 
Wright’s  insistence  that  they  patronize  his  private  tailor, 
high-priced  and  incompetent.  Serious  friction  has  also 


334  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


arisen  between  the  management  and  Mr.  Sawhill,  Su¬ 
perintendent  of  local  industries.  The  prisoners  rejoice 
at  the  growing  irascibility  of  the  Warden,  and  the  deeper 
lines  on  his  face,  interpreting  them  as  signs  of  worry  and 
fear.  Expectation  of  a  new  investigation  is  at  high  pitch 
as  Judge  Gordon,  of  Philadelphia,  severely  censures  the 
administration  of  the  Eastern  Penitentiary,  charging 
inhuman  treatment,  abuse  of  the  insane,  and  graft.  The 
labor  bodies  of  the  State  demand  the  abolition  of 
convict  competition,  and  the  press  becomes  more  assert¬ 
ive  in  urging  an  investigation  of  both  penitentiaries. 
The  air  is  charged  with  rumors  of  legislative  action. 

II 

y 

The  breath  of  spring  is  in  the  cell-house.  My  two 
comrades  are  jubilant.  The  sweet  odor  of  May  wafts 
the  resurrection !  But  the  threshold  of  life  is  guarded  by 
the  throes  of  new  birth.  A  tone  of  nervous  excitement 
permeates  their  correspondence.  Anxiety  tortures  the 
sleepless  nights ;  the  approaching  return  to  the  living  is 
tinged  with  the  disquietude  of  the  unknown,  the  dread 
of  the  renewed  struggle  for  existence.  But  the  joy 
of  coming  emancipation,  the  wine  of  sunshine  and  liberty 
tingles  in  every  fiber,  and  hope  flutters  its  disused  wings. 

Our  plans  are  complete.  Carl  is  to  visit  the  Girl, 
explain  my  project,  and  serve  as  the  medium  of  com¬ 
munication  by  means  of  our  prearranged  system,  in¬ 
vesting  apparently  innocent  official  letters  with  sub  rosa 
meaning.  The  initial  steps  will  require  time.  Mean¬ 
while  “K”  and  “G”  are  to  make  the  necessary  arrange¬ 
ments  for  the  publication  of  our  book.  The  security  of 
our  manuscripts  is  a  source  of  deep  satisfaction  and 
much  merriment  at  the  expense  of  the  administration. 
The  repeated  searches  have  failed  to  unearth  them.  With 


DREAMS  OF  FREEDOM 


335 


characteristic  daring,  the  faithful  Bob  had  secreted  them 
in  a  hole  in  the  floor  of  his  shop,  almost  under  the  very 
seat  of  the  guard.  One  by  one  they  have  been  smuggled 
outside  by  a  friendly  officer,  whom  we  have  christened 
“Schraube.”*  By  degrees  Nold  has  gained  the  confidence 
of  the  former  mill-worker,  with  the  result  that  sixty 
precious  booklets  now  repose  safely  with  a  comrade  in 
Allegheny.  I  am  to  supply  the  final  chapters  of  the  book 
through  Mr.  Schraube,  whose  friendship  Carl  is  about 
to  bequeath  to  me. 

The  month  of  May  is  on  the  wane.  The  last  note 
is  exchanged  with  my  comrades.  Dear  Bob  was  not  able 
to  reach  me  in  the  morning,  and  now  I  read  the  lines 
quivering  with  the  last  pangs  of  release,  while  Nold  and 
Bauer  are  already  beyond  the  walls.  How  I  yearned 
for  a  glance  at  Carl,  to  touch  hands,  even  in  silence! 
But  the  customary  privilege  was  refused  us.  Only  once 
in  the  long  years  of  our  common  suffering  have  I  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  my  devoted  friend,  and  stealthily 
pressed  his  hand,  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  No  last 
greeting  was  vouchsafed  me  to-day.  The  loneliness 
seems  heavier,  the  void  more  painful. 

The  routine  is  violently  disturbed.  Reading  and 
study  are  burdensome:  my  thoughts  will  not  be 
compelled.  They  revert  obstinately  to  my  comrades, 
and  storm  against  my  steel  cage,  trying  to  pierce 
the  distance,  to  commune  with  the  absent.  I  seek  di¬ 
version  in  the  manufacture  of  prison  “fancy  work,” 
ornamental  little  fruit  baskets,  diminutive  articles  of 
furniture,  picture  frames,  and  the  like.  The  little  me¬ 
mentos,  constructed  of  tissue-paper  rolls  of  various  de¬ 
signs,  I  send  to  the  Girl,  and  am  elated  at  her  admiration 


*  German  for  “screw.” 


336  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


of  the  beautiful  workmanship  and  attractive  color  effects. 
But  presently  she  laments  the  wrecked  condition  of  the 
goods,  and  upon  investigation  I  learn  from  the  runner 
that  the  most  dilapidated  cardboard  boxes  are  selected 
for  my  product.  The  rotunda  turnkey,  in  charge  of  the 
shipments,  is  hostile,  and  I  appeal  to  the  Chaplain. 
But  his  well-meant  intercession  results  in  an  order  from 
the  Warden,  interdicting  the  expressage  of  my  work,  on 
the  ground  of  probable  notes  being  secreted  therein. 
I  protest  against  the  discrimination,  suggesting  the  dis¬ 
membering  of  every  piece  to  disprove  the  charge.  But 
the  Captain  derisively  remarks  that  he  is  indisposed  to 
“take  chances,”  and  I  am  forced  to  resort  to  the  sub¬ 
terfuge  of  having  my  articles  transferred  to  a  friendly 
prisoner  and  addressed  by  him  to  his  mother  in  Beaver, 
Pa.,  thence  to  be  forwarded  to  New  York.  At  the 
same  time  the  rotunda  keeper  detains  a  valuable  piece 
of  ivory  sent  to  me  by  the  Girl  for  the  manufacture  of 
ornamental  toothpicks.  The  local  ware,  made  of  kitchen 
bones  bleached  in  lime,  turns  yellow  in  a  short  time. 
My  request  for  the  ivory  is  refused  on  the  plea  of 
submitting  the  matter  to  the  Warden’s  decision,  who 
rules  against  me.  I  direct  the  return  of  it  to  my  friend, 
but  am  informed  that  the  ivory  has  been  mislaid  and 
cannot  be  found.  Exasperated,  I  charge  the  guard  with 
the  theft,  and  serve  notice  that  I  shall  demand  the  ivory 
at  the  expiration  of  my  time.  The  turnkey  jeers  at  the 
wild  impossibility,  and  I  am  placed  for  a  week  on 
“Pennsylvania  diet”  for  insulting  an  officer. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


•  WHITEWASHED  AGAIN 

My  Dear  Carl:  Christmas,  1897. 

I  have  been  despairing  of  reaching  you  sub  rosa,  but  the 
holidays  brought  the  usual  transfers,  and  at  last  friend  Schraube 
is  with  me.  Dear  Carolus,  I  am  worn  out  with  the  misery  of  the 
months  since  you  left,  and  the  many  disappointments.  Your 
official  letters  were  not  convincing.  I  fail  to  understand  why 
the  plan  is  not  practicable.  Of  course,  you  can’t  write  openly, 
but  you  have  means  of  giving  a  hint  as  to  the  “impossibilities” 
you  speak  of.  You  say  that  I  have  become  too  estranged  from 
the  outside,  and  so  forth — which  may  be  true.  Yet  I  think  the 
matter  chiefly  concerns  the  inside,  and  of  that  I  am  the  best 
judge.  I  do  not  see  the  force  of  your  argument  when  you  dwell 
upon  the  application  at  the  next  session  of  the  Pardon  Board. 
You  mean  that  the  other  plan  would  jeopardize  the  success  of 
the  legal  attempt.  But  there  is  not  much  hope  of  favorable 
action  by  the  Board.  We  have  talked  all  this  over  before,  but 
you  seem  to  have  a  different  view  now.  Why? 

Only  in  a  very  small  measure  do  your  letters  replace  in  my 
life  the  heart-to-heart  talks  we  used  to  have  here,  though  they 
were  only  on  paper.  But  I  am  much  interested  in  your  activities. 
It  seems  strange  that  you,  so  long  the  companion  of  my  silence, 
should  now  be  in  the  very  Niagara  of  life,  of  our  movement. 
It  gives  me  great  satisfaction  to  know  that  your  experience  here 
has  matured  you,  and  helped  to  strengthen  and  deepen  your 
convictions.  It  has  had  a  similar  effect  upon  me.  You  know 
what  a  voluminous  reader  I  am.  I  have  read — in  fact,  studied 
— every  volume  in  the  library  here,  and  now  the  Chaplain  sup¬ 
plies  me  with  books  from  his.  But  whether  it  be  philosophy, 
travel,  or  contemporary  life  that  falls  into  my  hands,  it  invariably 
distils  into  my  mind  the  falsity  of  dominant  ideas,  and  the  beauty, 
the  inevitability  of  Anarchism.  But  I  do  not  want  to  enlarge 
upon  this  subject  now;  we  can  discuss  it  through  official  channels. 

337 


338  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


You  know  that  Tony  and  his  nephew  are  here.  We  are  just 
getting  acquainted.  He  works  in  the  shop;  but  as  he  is  also 
coffee-boy,  we  have  an  opportunity  to  exchange  notes.  It  is 
fortunate  that  his  identity  is  not  known;  otherwise  he  would 
fall  under  special  surveillance.  I  have  my  eyes  on  Tony, — he 
may  prove  valuable. 

I  am  still  in  solitary,  with  no  prospect  of  relief.  You  know 
the  policy  of  the  Warden  to  use  me  as  a  scapegoat  for  every¬ 
thing  that  happens  here.  It  has  become  a  mania  with  him. 
Think  of  it,  he  blames  me  for  Johnny  Davis’  cutting  “Dutch.” 
He  laid  everything  at  my  door  when  the  legislative  investigation 
took  place.  It  was  a  worse  sham  than  the  previous  whitewash. 
Several  members  called  to  see  me  at  the  cell, — unofficially,  they 
said.  They  got  a  hint  of  the  evidence  I  was  prepared  to  give, 
and  one  of  them  suggested  to  me  that  it  is  not  advisable  for 
one  in  my  position  to  antagonize  the  Warden.  I  replied  that 
I  was  no  toady.  He  hinted  that  the  authorities  of  the  prison 
might  help  me  to  procure  freedom,  if  I  would  act  “discreetly.” 
I  insisted  that  I  wanted  to  be  heard  by  the  committee.  They 
departed,  promising  to  call  me  as  a  witness.  One  Senator  re¬ 
marked,  as  he  left:  “You  are  too  intelligent  a  man  to  be  at 
large.” 

When  the  hearing  opened,  several  officers  were  the  first  to 
take  the  stand.  The  testimony  was  not  entirely  favorable  to  the 
Warden.  Then  Mr.  Sawhill  was  called.  You  know  him;  he  is 
an  independent  sort  of  man,  with  an  eye  upon  the  wardenship. 
His  evidence  came  like  a  bomb :  he  charged  the  management 
with  corruption  and  fraud,  and  so  forth.  The  investigators  took 
fright.  They  closed  the  sessions  and  departed  for  Harrisburg, 
announcing  through  the  press  that  they  would  visit  Moyamensing* 
and  then  return  to  Riverside.  But  they  did  not  return.  The 
report  they  submitted  to  the  Governor  exonerated  the  Warden. 

The  men  were  gloomy  over  the  state  of  affairs.  A  hundred 
prisoners  were  prepared  to  testify,  and  much  was  expected  from 
the  committee.  I  had  all  my  facts  on  hand :  Bob  had  fished 
out  for  me  the  bundle  of  material  from  its  hiding  place.  It 
was  in  good  condition,  in  spite  of  the  long  soaking.  (I  am  en¬ 
closing  some  new  data  in  this  letter,  for  use  in  our  book.) 

Now  that  he  is  “cleared,”  the  Warden  has  grown  even  more 
arrogant  and  despotic.  Yet  some  good  the  agitation  in  the 


*  The  Eastern  Penitentiary  at  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


WHITEWASHED  AGAIN 


339 


press  has  accomplished:  clubbings  are  less  frequent,  and  the  bull 
ring  is  temporarily  abolished.  But  his  hatred  of  me  has  grown 
venomous.  He  holds  us  responsible  (together  with  Dempsey 
and  Beatty)  for  organizing  the  opposition  to  convict  labor, 
which  has  culminated  in  the  Muehlbronner  law.  It  is  to  take 
effect  on  the  first  of  the  year.  The  prison  administration  is 
very  bitter,  because  the  statute,  which  permits  only  thirty-five  per 
cent,  of  the  inmates  to  be  employed  in  productive  labor,  will 
considerably  minimize  opportunities  for  graft.  But  the  men 
are  rejoicing:  the  terrible  slavery  in  the  shops  has  driven  many 
to  insanity  and  death.  The  law  is  one  of  the  rare  instances 
of  rational  legislation.  Its  benefit  to  labor  in  general  is  nullified, 
however,  by  limiting  convict  competition  only  within  the  State. 
The  Inspectors  are  already  seeking  a  market  for  the  prison 
products  in  other  States,  while  the  convict  manufactures  of  New 
York,  Ohio,  Illinois,  etc.,  are  disposed  of  in  Pennsylvania.  The 
irony  of  beneficent  legislation !  On  the  other  hand,  the  inmates 
need  not  suffer  for  lack  of  employment.  The  new  law  allows 
the  unlimited  manufacture,  within  the  prison,  of  products  for 
local  consumption.  If  the  whine  of  the  management  regarding 
the  “detrimental  effect  of  idleness  on  the  convict”  is  sincere, 
they  could  employ  five  times  the  population  of  the  prison  in  the 
production  of  articles  for  our  own  needs. 

At  present  all  the  requirements  of  the  penitentiary  are  sup¬ 
plied  from  the  outside.  The  purchase  of  a  farm,  following  the 
example  set  by  the  workhouse,  would  alone  afford  work  for  a 
considerable  number  of  men.  I  have  suggested,  in  a  letter  to 
the  Inspectors,  various  methods  by  which  every  inmate  of  the 
institution  could  be  employed, — among  them  the  publication  of 
a  prison  paper.  Of  course,  they  have  ignored  me.  But  what 
can  you  expect  of  a  body  of  philanthropists  who  have  the  interest 
of  the  convict  so  much  at  heart  that  they  delegated  the  President 
of  the  Board,  George  A.  Kelly,  to  oppose  the  parole  bill,  a 
measure  certainly  along  advanced  lines  of  modern  criminology. 
Owing  to  the  influence  of  Inspector  Kelly,  the  bill  was  shelved 
at  the  last  session  of  the  legislature,  though  the  prisoners  have 
been  praying  for  it  for  years.  It  has  robbed  the  moneyless  life- 
timers  of  their  last  hope:  a  clause  in  the  parole  bill  held 
out  to  them  the  promise  of  release  after  20  years  of  good 
behavior. 

Dark  days  are  in  store  for  the  men.  Apparently  the  cam- 


340  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


paign  of  the  Inspectors  consists  in  forcing  the  repeal  of  the 
Muehlbronner  law,  by  raising  the  hue  and  cry  of  insanity  and 
sickness.  They  are  actually  causing  both  by  keeping  half  the 
population  locked  up.  You  know  how  quickly  the  solitary  drives 
certain  classes  of  prisoners  insane.  Especially  the  more  ignorant 
element,  whose  mental  horizon  is  circumscribed  by  their  personal 
troubles  and  pain,  speedily  fall  victims.  Think  of  men,  who 
cannot  even  read,  put  incommunicado  for  months  at  a  time, 
for  years  even !  Most  of  the  colored  prisoners,  and  those  accus¬ 
tomed  to  outdoor  life,  such  as  farmers  and  the  like,  quickly 
develop  the  germs  of  consumption  in  close  confinement.  Now, 
this  wilful  murder — for  it  is  nothing  else — is  absolutely  unneces¬ 
sary.  The  yard  is  big  and  well  protected  by  the  thirty-foot  wall, 
with  armed  guards  patrolling  it.  Why  not  give  the  unemployed 
men  air  and  exercise,  since  the  management  is  determined  to 
keep  them  idle?  I  suggested  the  idea  to  the  Warden,  but  he 
berated  me  for  my  “habitual  interference”  in  matters  that  do 
not  concern  me.  I  often  wonder  at  the  enigma  of  human 
nature.  There’s  the  Captain,  a  man  72  years  old.  He  should 
bethink  himself  of  death,  of  “meeting  his  Maker,”  since  he 
pretends  to  believe  in  religion.  Instead,  he  is  bending  all  his 
energies  to  increase  insanity  and  disease  among  the  convicts,  in 
order  to  force  the  repeal  of  the  law  that  has  lessened  the  flow 
of  blood  money.  It  is  almost  beyond  belief;  but  you  have 
yourself  witnessed  the  effect  of  a  brutal  atmosphere  upon  new 
officers.  Wright  has  been  Warden  for  thirty  years:  he  has 
come  to  regard  the  prison  as  his  undisputed  dominion;  and 
now  he  is  furious  at  the  legislative  curtailment  of  his  absolute 
control. 

This  letter  will  remind  you  of  our  bulky  notes  in  the  “good” 
old  days  when  “KG”  were  here.  I  miss  our  correspondence. 
There  are  some  intelligent  men  on  the  range,  but  they  are  not 
interested  in  the  thoughts  that  seethe  within  me  and  call  for 
expression.  Just  now  the  chief  topic  of  local  interest  (after,  of 
course,  the  usual  discussion  of  the  grub,  women,  kids,  and  their 
health  and  troubles)  is  the  Spanish  War  and  the  new  dining¬ 
room,  in  which  the  shop  employees  are  to  be  fed  en  masse,  out 
of  chinaware,  think  of  it !  Some  of  the  men  are  tremendously 
patriotic ;  others  welcome  the  war  as  a  sinecure  affording  easy 
money  and  plenty  of  excitement.  You  remember  Young  Butch 
and  his  partners,  Murtha,  Tommy,  etc.  They  have  recently  been 


WHITEWASHED  AGAIN 


341 


released,  too  wasted  and  broken  in  health  to  be  fit  for  manual 
labor.  All  of  them  have  signified  their  intention  of  joining  the 
insurrection ;  some  are  enrolling  in  the  regular  army  for  the 
war.  Butch  is  already  in  Cuba.  I  had  a  letter  from  him.  There 
is  a  passage  in  it  that  is  tragically  characteristic.  He  refers  to 
a  skirmish  he  participated  in.  “We  shot  a  lot  of  Spaniards, 
mostly  from  ambush,”  he  writes;  “it  was  great  sport.”  It  is 
the  attitude  of  the  military  adventurer,  to  whom  a  sacred  cause 
like  the  Cuban  uprising  unfortunately  affords  the  opportunity 
to  satisfy  his  lust  for  blood.  Butch  was  a  very  gentle  boy  wheii 
he  entered  the  prison.  But  he  has  witnessed  much  heartlessness 
and  cruelty  during  his  term  of  three  years. 

Letter  growing  rather  long.  Good  night. 


A. 


-  ^-"i  ■  ■■  > 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT” 

I 

A  year  of  solitary  has  wasted  my  strength,  and  left 
me  feeble  and  languid.  My  expectations  of  relief  from 
complete  isolation  have  been  disappointed.  Existence  is 
grim  with  despair,  as  day  by  day  I  feel  my  vitality 
ebbing;  the  long  nights  are  tortured  with  insomnia;  my 
body  is  racked  with  constant  pains.  All  my  heart  is 
dark. 

A  glimmer  of  light  breaks  through  the  clouds, 
as  the  session  of  the  Pardon  Board  approaches.  I 
clutch  desperately  at  the  faint  hope  of  a  favorable  deci¬ 
sion.  With  feverish  excitement  I  pore  over  the  letters 
of  the  Girl,  breathing  cheer  and  encouraging  news.  My 
application  is  supported  by  numerous  labor  bodies,  she 
writes.  Comrade  Harry  Kelly  has  been  tireless  in 
my  behalf ;  the  success  of  his  efforts  to  arouse  public 
sympathy  augurs  well  for  the  application.  The  United 
Labor  League  of  Pennsylvania,  representing  over  a 
hundred  thousand  toilers,  has  passed  a  resolution  favor¬ 
ing  my  release.  Together  with  other  similar  expressions, 
individual  and  collective,  it  will  be  laid  before  the  Par¬ 
don  Board,  and  it  is  confidently  expected  that  the  au¬ 
thorities  will  not  ignore  the  voice  of  organized  labor. 
In  a  ferment  of  anxiety  and  hope  I  count  the  days  and 
hours,  irritable  with  impatience  and  apprehension  as  I 

342 


“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT”  343 


near  the  fateful  moment.  Visions  of  liberty  flutter  before 
me,  glorified  by  the  meeting  with  the  Girl  and  my  for¬ 
mer  companions,  and  I  thrill  with  the  return  to  the 
world,  as  I  restlessly  pace  the  cell  in  the  silence  of  the 
night. 

The  thought  of  my  prison  friends  obtrudes  upon 
my  visions.  With  the  tenderness  born  of  common  mis¬ 
ery  I  think  of  their  fate,  resolving  to  brighten  their 
lives  with  little  comforts  and  letters,  that  mean  so  much 
to  every  prisoner.  My  first  act  in  liberty  shall  be 
in  memory  of  the  men  grown  close  to  me  with  the 
kinship  of  suffering,  the  unfortunates  endeared  by 
awakened  sympathy  and  understanding.  For  so  many 
years  I  have  shared  with  them«the  sorrows  and  the  few 
joys  of  penitentiary  life,  I  feel  almost  guilty  to  leave 
them.  But  henceforth  their  cause  shall  be  mine,  a  vital 
part  of  the  larger,  social  cause.  It  will  be  my  constant 
endeavor  to  ameliorate  their  condition,  and  I  shall  strain 
every  effort  for  my  little  friend  Felipe;  I  must  secure 
his  release.  How  happy  the  boy  will  be  to  join  me  in 
liberty!  .  .  .  The  flash  of  the  dark  lantern  dispels  my 
fantasies,  and  again  I  walk  the  cell  in  vehement  mis¬ 
giving  and  fervent  hope  of  to-morrow’s  verdict. 

At  noon  I  am  called  to  the  Warden.  He  must  have 
received  word  from  the  Board, — I  reflect  on  the  way. 
The  Captain  lounges  in  the  armchair,  his  eyes  glistening, 
his  seamed  face  yellow  and  worried.  With  an  effort  I 
control  my  impatience  as  he  offers  me  a  seat.  He  bids 
the  guard  depart,  and  a  wild  hope  trembles  in  me.  He 
is  not  afraid, — perhaps  good  news ! 

“Sit  down,  Berkman,’.’  he  speaks  with  unwonted  affa¬ 
bility.  “I  have  just  received  a  message  from  Harris¬ 
burg.  Your  attorney  requests  me  to  inform  you  that  the 
Pardon  Board  has  now  reached  your  case.  It  is  prob¬ 
ably  under  consideration  at  this  moment.” 


344  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


I  remain  silent.  The  Warden  scans  me  closely. 

“You  would  return  to  New  York,  if  released?”  he 
inquires. 

“Yes.” 

“What  are  your  plans?” 

“Well,  I  have  not  formed  any  yet.” 

“You  would  go  back  to  your  Anarchist  friends?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You  have  not  changed  your  views?” 

“By  no  means.” 

A  turnkey  enters.  “Captain,  on  official  business,”  he 
reports. 

“Wait  here  a  moment,  Berkman,”  the  Warden  re¬ 
marks,  withdrawing.  The  officer  remains. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Warden  returns,  motioning  to 
the  guard  to  leave. 

“I  have  just  been  informed  that  the  Board  has  re¬ 
fused  you  a  hearing.” 

I  feel  the  cold  perspiration  running  down  my  back. 
The  prison  rumors  of  the  Warden’s  interference  flash 
through  my  mind.  The  Board  promised  a  rehearing 
at  the  previous  application, — why  this  refusal? 

“Warden,”  I  exclaim,  “you  objected  to  my  pardon!” 

“Such  action  lies  with  the  Inspectors,”  he  replies 
evasively.  The  peculiar  intonation  strengthens  my  sus¬ 
picions. 

A  feeling  of  hopelessness  possesses  me.  I  sense  the 
Warden’s  gaze  fastened  on  me,  and  I  strive  to  control 
my  emotion. 

“How  much  time  have  you  yet?”  he  asks. 

“Over  eleven  years.” 

“How  long  have  you  been  locked  up  this  time?” 

“Sixteen  months.” 

“There  is  a  vacancy  on  your  range.  The  assistant 


“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT”  345 

hallman  is  going  home  to-morrow.  You  would  like 
the  position?”  he  eyes  me  curiously. 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll  consider  it.” 

I  rise  weakly,  but  he  detains  me :  “By  the  way,  Berk- 
man,  look  at  this.” 

He  holds  up  a  small  wooden  box,  disclosing  several 
casts  of  plaster  of  paris.  I  wonder  at  the  strange  pro¬ 
ceeding. 

“You  know  what  they  are?”  he  inquires. 

“Plaster  casts,  I  think.” 

“Of  what?  For  what  purpose?  Look  at  them  well, 
now.” 

I  glance  indifferently  at  the  molds  bearing  the  clear 
impression  of  an  eagle. 

“It’s  the  cast  of  a  silver  dollar,  I  believe.” 

“I  am  glad  you  speak  truthfully.  I  had  no  doubt  you 
would  know.  I  examined  your  library  record  and  found 
that  you  have  drawn  books  on  metallurgy.” 

“Oh,  you  suspect  me  of  this?”  I  flare  up. 

“No,  not  this  time,”  he  smiles  in  a  suggestive  manner. 
“You  have  drawn  practically  every  book  from  the 
library.  I  had  a  talk  with  the  Chaplain,  and  he  is  pos¬ 
itive  that  you  would  not  be  guilty  of  counterfeiting, 
because  it  would  be  robbing  poor  people.” 

“The  reading  of  my  letters  must  have  familiarized 
the  Chaplain  with  Anarchist  ideas.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Milligan  thinks  highly  of  you.  You  might 
antagonize  the  management,  but  he  assures  me  you 
would  not  abet  such  a  crime.” 

“I  am  glad  to  hear  it.” 

“You  would  protect  the  Federal  Government,  then?” 

“I  don’t  understand  you.” 

“You  would  protect  the  people  from  being  cheated 
by  counterfeit  money?” 


346  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“The  government  and  the  people  are  not  synony¬ 
mous/’ 

Flushing  slightly,  and  frowning,  he  asks:  “But  you 
would  protect  the  poor?” 

“Yes,  certainly.” 

His  face  brightens.  “Oh,  quite  so,  quite  so,”  he 
smiles  reassuringly.  “These  molds  were  found  hidden 
in  the  North  Block.  No;  not  in  a  cell,  but  in  the 
hall.  We  suspect  a  certain  man.  It’s  Ed  Sloane;  he 
is  located  two  tiers  above  you.  Now,  Berkman,  the 
management  is  very  anxious  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this 
matter.  It’s  a  crime  against  the  people.  You  may 
have  heard  Sloane  speaking  to  his  neighbors  about  this.” 

“No.  I  am  sure  you  suspect  an  innocent  person.” 

“How  so  ?” 

“Sloane  is  a  very  sick  man.  It’s  the  last  thing  he’d 
think  of.” 

“Well,  we  have  certain  reasons  for  suspecting  him. 
If  you  should  happen  to  hear  anything,  just  rap  on  the 
door  and  inform  the  officers  you  are  ill.  They  will 
be  instructed  to  send  for  me  at  once.” 

“I  can’t  do  it,  Warden.” 

“Why  not?”  he  demands. 

“I  am  not  a  spy.” 

“Why,  certainly  not,  Berkman.  I  should  not  ask 
you  to  be.  But  you  have  friends  on  the  range,  you  may 
learn  something.  Well,  think  the  matter  over,”  he  adds, 
dismissing  me. 

Bitter  disappointment  at  the  action  of  the  Board, 
indignation  at  the  Warden’s  suggestion,  struggle  within 
me  as  I  reach  my  cell.  The  guard  is  about  to  lock  me 
in,  when  the  Deputy  Warden  struts  into  the  block. 

“Officer,  unlock  him,”  he  commands.  “Berkman,  the 


“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT”  347 


Captain  says  you  are  to  be  assistant  rangeman.  Report 
to  Mr.  Mcllvaine  for  a  broom.” 

II 

The  unexpected  relief  strengthens  the  hope  of  liberty. 
Legal  methods  are  of  no  avail,  but  now  my  opportu¬ 
nities  for  escape  are  more  favorable.  Considerable 
changes  have  taken  place  during  my  solitary,  and  the 
first  necessity  is  to  orient  myself.  Some  of  my  confi¬ 
dants  have  been  released;  others  were  transferred  dur¬ 
ing  the  investigation  period  to  the  South  Wing,  to  dis¬ 
rupt  my  connections.  New  men  are  about  the  cell- 
house,  and  I  miss  many  of  my  chums.  The  lower  half 
of  the  bottom  ranges  A  and  K  is  now  exclusively 
occupied  by  the  insane,  their  numbers  greatly  augmented. 
Poor  Wingie  has  disappeared.  Grown  violently  insane, 
he  was  repeatedly  lodged  in  the  dungeon,  and  finally  sent 
to  an  asylum.  There  my  unfortunate  friend  had 
died  after  two  months.  His  cell  is  now  occupied  by 
“Irish  Mike,”  a  good-natured  boy,  turned  imbecile  by 
solitary.  He  hops  about  on  all  fours,  bleating: 
“Baah,  baah,  see  the  goat.  I’m  the  goat,  baah,  baah.” 
I  shudder  at  the  fate  I  have  escaped,  as  I  look  at  the 
familiar  faces  that  were  so  bright  with  intelligence  and 
youth,  now  staring  at  me  from  the  “crank  row,”  wild¬ 
eyed  and  corpse-like,  their  minds  shattered,  their  bodies 
wasted  to  a  shadow.  My  heart  bleeds  as  I  realize  that 
Sid  and  Nick  fail  to  recognize  me,  their  memory  a  total 
blank;  and  Patsy,  the  Pittsburgh  bootblack,  stands  at 
the  door,  motionless,  his  eyes  glassy,  lips  frozen  in  an 
inane  smile. 

From  cell  to  cell  I  pass  the  graveyard  of  the  living 
dead,  the  silence  broken  only  by  intermittent  savage 
yells  and  the  piteous  bleating  of  Mike.  The  whole 


348  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


day  these  men  are  locked  in,  deprived  of  exercise  and 
recreation,  their  rations  reduced  because  of  “delin¬ 
quency.^ ”  New  “bughouse  cases”  are  continually  added 
from  the  ranks  of  the  prisoners  forced  to  remain  idle 
and  kept  in  solitary.  The  sight  of  the  terrible  misery 
almost  gives  a  touch  of  consolation  to  my  grief  over 
Johnny  Davis.  My  young  friend  had  grown  ill  in  the  foul 
basket.  He  begged  to  be  taken  to  the  hospital;  but  his 
condition  did  not  warrant  it,  the  physician  said.  More¬ 
over,  he  was  “in  punishment.”  Poor  boy,  how  he  must 
have  suffered!  They  found  him  dead  on  the  floor  of 
his  cell. 

My  body  renews  its  strength  with  the  exercise  and 
greater  liberty  of  the  range.  The  subtle  hope  of  the 
Warden  to  corrupt  me  has  turned  to  my  advantage.  I 
smile  with  scorn  at  his  miserable  estimate  of  human 
nature,  determined  by  a  lifetime  of  corruption  and 
hypocrisy.  How  saddening  is  the  shallowness  of  popular 
opinion !  Warden  Wright  is  hailed  as  a  progressive  man, 
a  deep  student  of  criminology,  who  has  introduced  mod¬ 
ern  methods  in  the  treatment  of  prisoners.  As  an 
expression  of  respect  and  appreciation,  the  National 
Prison  Association  has  selected  Captain  Wright  as  its 
delegate  to  the  International  Congress  at  Brussels,  which 
is  to  take  place  in  1900.  And  all  the  time  the  Warden 
is  designing  new  forms  of  torture,  denying  the  pleadings 
of  the  idle  men  for  exercise,  and  exerting  his  utmost 
efforts  to  increase  sickness  and  insanity,  in  the  attempt 
to  force  the  repeal  of  the  “convict  labor”  law.  The 
puerility  of  his  judgment  fills  me  with  contempt:  public 
sentiment  in  regard  to  convict  competition  with  outside 
labor  has  swept  the  State ;  the  efforts  of  the  Warden,  dis¬ 
astrous  though  they  be  to  the  inmates,  are  doomed  to 
failure.  No  less  fatuous  is  the  conceit  of  his  boasted 


“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT”  349 


experience  of  thirty  years.  The  so  confidently  uttered 
suspicion  of  Ed  Sloane  in  regard  to  the  counterfeiting 
charge,  has  proved  mere  lip-wisdom.  The  real  culprit 
is  Bob  Runyon,  the  trusty  basking  in  the  Warden’s 
special  graces.  His  intimate  friend,  John  Smith,  the 
witness  and  protege  of  Torrance,  has  confided  to  me  the 
whole  story,  in  a  final  effort  to  “set  himself  straight.” 
He  even  exhibited  to  me  the  coins  made  by  Runyon, 
together  with  the  original  molds,  cast  in  the  trusty’s 
cell.  And  poor  Sloane,  still  under  surveillance,  is  slowly 
dying  of  neglect,  the  doctor  charging  him  with  eating 
soap  to  produce  symptoms  of  illness. 

Ill 

The  year  passes  in  a  variety  of  interests.  The  Girl 
and  several  newly-won  correspondents  hold  the  thread 
of  outside  life.  The  Twin  has  gradually  withdrawn 
from  our  New  York  circles,  and  is  now  entirely  obscured 
on  my  horizon.  But  the  Girl  is  staunch  and  devoted, 
and  I  keenly  anticipate  her  regular  mail.  She  keeps  me 
informed  of  events  in  the  international  labor  move¬ 
ment,  news  of  which  is  almost  entirely  lacking  in  the 
daily  press.  We  discuss  the  revolutionary  expressions 
of  the  times,  and  I  learn  more  about  Pallas  and  Luccheni, 
whose  acts  of  the  previous  winter  had  thrown  Europe 
into  a  ferment  of  agitation.  I  hunger  for  news  of  the 
agitation  against  the  tortures  in  Montjuich,  the  revival  of 
the  Inquisition  rousing  in  me  the  spirit  of  retribution 
and  deep  compassion  for  my  persecuted  comrades  in 
the  Spanish  bastille.  Beneath  the  suppressed  tone  of  her 
letters,  I  read  the  Girl’s  suffering  and  pain,  and  feel  the 
heart  pangs  of  her  unuttered  personal  sorrows. 

Presently  I  am  apprised  that  some  prominent  per¬ 
sons  interested  in  my  case  are  endeavoring  to  secure 


350  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Carnegie’s  signature  for  a  renewed  application  to  the 
Board  of  Pardons.  The  Girl  conveys  the  information 
guardedly ;  the  absence  of  comment  discovers  to  me 
the  anguish  of  soul  the  step  has  caused  her.  What 
terrible  despair  had  given  birth  to  the  suggestion,  I 
wonder.  If  the  project  of  the  underground  escape 
had  been  put  in  operation,  we  should  not  have  had 
to  suffer  such  humiliation.  Why  have  my  friends 
ignored  the  detailed  plan  I  had  submitted  to  them 
through  Carl  ?  I  am  confident  of  its  feasibility  and 
success,  if  we  can  muster  the  necessary  skill  and  outlay. 
The  animosity  of  the  prison  authorities  precludes  the 
thought  of  legal  release.  The  underground  route,  very 
difficult  and  expensive  though  it  be,  is  the  sole  hope. 
It  must  be  realized.  My  sub  rosa  communications  sus¬ 
pended  during  the  temporary  absence  of  Mr.  Schraube, 
I  hint  these  thoughts  in  official  mail  to  the  Girl,  but 
refrain  from  objecting  to  the  Carnegie  idea. 

Other  matters  of  interest  I  learn  from  correspond¬ 
ence  with  friends  in  Philadelphia  and  Pittsburgh.  The 
frequent  letters  of  Carl,  still  reminiscent  of  his  sojourn 
at  Riverside,  thrill  with  the  joy  of  active  propaganda 
and  of  his  success  as  public  speaker.  Voltairine  de 
Cleyre  and  Sarah  Patton  lend  color  to  my  existence  by 
discursive  epistles  of  great  charm  and  rebellious  thought. 
Often  I  pause  to  wonder  at  the  miracle  of  my  mail  pass¬ 
ing  the  censorial  eyes.  But  the  Chaplain  is  a  busy  man ; 
careful  perusal  of  every  letter  would  involve  too  great  a 
demand  upon  his  time.  The  correspondence  with  Mattie 
I  turn  over  to  my  neighbor  Pasquale,  a  young  Italian 
serving  sixteen  years,  who  has  developed  a  violent  pas¬ 
sion  for  the  pretty  face  on  the  photograph.  The  roguish 
eyes  and  sweet  lips  exert  but  a  passing  impression  upon 
me.  My  thoughts  turn  to  Johnny,  my  young  friend  in 
the  convict  grave.  Deep  snow  is  on  the  ground ;  it  must 


“AND  BY  ALL  FORGOT,  WE  ROT  AND  ROT”  351 


be  cold  beneath  the  sod.  The  white  shroud  is  pressing, 
pressing  heavily  upon  the  lone  boy,  like  the  suffocating 
night  of  the  basket  cell.  But  in  the  spring  little  blades 
of  green  will  sprout,  and  perhaps  a  rosebud  will  timidly 
burst  and  flower,  all  white,  and  perfume  the  air,  and 
shed  its  autumn  tears  upon  the  convict  grave  of  Johnny. 


i 


! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


THE  DEVIOUSNESS  OF  REFORM  LAW  APPLIED 


February  14,  1899. 

Dear  Carolus: 

The  Greeks  thought  the  gods  spiteful  creatures.  When 
things  begin  to  look  brighter  for  man,  they  grow  envious. 
You’ll  be  surprised, — Mr.  Schraube  has  turned  into  an  enemy. 
Mostly  my  own  fault;  that’s  the  sting  of  it.  It  will  explain  to 
you  the  failure  of  the  former  sub  rosa  route.  The  present  one 
is  safe,  but  very  temporary. 

It  happened  last  fall.  From  assistant  I  was  advanced  to 
hallman,  having  charge  of  the  “crank  row,”  on  Range  A. 
A  new  order  curtailed  the  rations  of  the  insane, — no  cornbread, 
cheese,  or  hash;  only  bread  and  coffee.  As  rangeman,  I  help 
to  “feed,”  and  generally  have  “extras”  left  on  the  wagon, — some 
one  sick,  or  refusing  food,  etc.  I  used  to  distribute  the  extras, 
“on  the  q.  t.,”  among  the  men  deprived  of  them.  One  day,  just 
before  Christmas,  an  officer  happened  to  notice  Patsy  chewing 
a  piece  of  cheese.  The  poor  fellow  is  quite  an  imbecile;  he  did 
not  know  enough  to  hide  what  I  gave  him.  Well,  you  are 
aware  that  “Cornbread  Tom”  does  not  love  me.  He  reported 
me.  I  admitted  the  charge  to  the  Warden,  and  tried  to  tell  him 
how  hungry  the  men  were.  He  wouldn’t  hear  of  it,  saying  that 
the  insane  should  not  “overload”  their  stomachs.  I  was  ordered 
locked  up.  Within  a  month  I  was  out  again,  but  imagine  my 
surprise  when  Schraube  refused  even  to  talk  to  me.  At  first 
I  could  not  fathom  the  mystery;  later  I  learned  that  he  was 
reprimanded,  losing  ten  days’  pay  for  “allowing”  me  to  feed 
the  demented.  He  knew  nothing  about  it,  <of  course,  but  he 
was  at  the  time  in  special  charge  of  “crank  row.”  The  Schraube 
has  been  telling  my  friends  that  I  got  him  in  trouble  wilfully. 
He  seems  to  nurse  his  grievance  with  much  bitterness ;  he 
apparently  hates  me  now  with  the  hatred  we  often  feel  toward 

352 


THE  DEVIOUSNESS  OF  REFORM  LAW  APPLIED  353 


those  who  know  our  secrets.  But  he  realizes  he  has  nothing 
to  fear  from  me.. 

Many  changes  have  taken  place  since  you  left.  You  would 
hardly  recognize  the  block  if  you  returned  (better  stay  out, 
though).  No  more  talking  through  the  waste  pipes;  the  new 
privies  have  standing  water.  Electricity  is  gradually  taking  the 
place  of  candles.  The  garish  light  is  almost  driving  me  blind, 
and  the  innovation  has  created  a  new  problem :  how  to  light 
our  pipes.  We  are  given  the  same  monthly  allowance  of 
matches,  each  package  supposed  to  contain  30,  but  usually  having 
27;  and  last  month  I  received  only  25.  I  made  a  kick,  but  it 
was  in  vain.  The  worst  of  it  is,  fully  a  third  of  the  matches  are 
damp  and  don’t  light.  While  we  used  candles  we  managed  some¬ 
how,  borrowing  a  few  matches  occasionally  from  non-smokers. 
But  now  that  candles  are  abolished,  the  difficulty  is  very  serious. 
I  split  each  match  into  four;  sometimes  I  succeed  in  making  six. 
There  is  a  man  on  the  range  who  is  an  artist  at  it :  he  can  make 
eight  cuts  out  of  a  match;  all  serviceable,  too.  Even  at  that, 
there  is  a  famine,  and  I  have  been  forced  to  return  to  the 
stone  age:  with  flint  and  tinder  I  draw  the  fire  of  Prometheus. 

The  mess-room  is  in  full  blast.  The  sight  of  a  thousand 
men,  bent  over  their  food  in  complete  silence,  officers  flanking 
each  table,  is  by  no  means  appetizing.  But  during  the  Spanish 
war,  the  place  resembled  the  cell-house  on  New  Year’s  eve. 
The  patriotic  Warden  daily  read  to  the  diners  the  latest  news, 
and  such  cheering  and  wild  yelling  you  have  never  heard. 
Especially  did  the  Hobson  exploit  fire  the  spirit  of  jingoism. 
But  the  enthusiasm  suddenly  cooled  when  the  men  realized  that 
they  were  wasting  precious  minutes  hurrahing,  and  then  leaving 
the  table  hungry  when  the  bell  terminated  the  meal.  Some  tried 
to  pocket  the  uneaten  beans  and  rice,  but  the  guards  detected 
them,  and  after  that  the  Warden’s  war  reports  were  accom¬ 
panied  only  with  loud  munching  and  champing. 

Another  innovation  is  exercise.  Your  interviews  with  the 
reporters,  and  those  of  other  released  prisoners,  have  at  last 
forced  the  Warden  to  allow  the  idle  men  an  hour’s  recreation. 
In  inclement  weather,  they  walk  in  the  cell-house;  on  fine  days, 
in  the  yard.  The  reform  was  instituted  last  autumn,  and  the 
improvement  in  health  is  remarkable.  The  doctor  is  enthusias¬ 
tically  in  favor  of  the  privilege;  the  sick-line  has  been  so  con¬ 
siderably  reduced  that  he  estimates  his  time-saving  at  two  hours 


354 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


daily.  Some  of  the  boys  tell  me  they  have  almost  entirely  ceased 
masturbating.  The  shop  employees  envy  the  “idlers”  now; 
many  have  purposely  precipitated  trouble  in  order  to  be 
put  in  solitary,  and  thus  enjoy  an  hour  in  the  open.  But  Sandy 
“got  next,”  and  now  those  locked  up  “for  cause”  are  excluded 
from  exercise. 

Here  are  some  data  for  our  book.  The  population  at  the 
end  of  last  year  was  956 — the  lowest  point  in  over  a  decade. 
The  Warden  admits  that  the  war  has  decreased  crime;  the 
Inspectors’  report  refers  to  the  improved  economic  conditions, 
as  compared  with  the  panicky  times  of  the  opening  years  in 
the  90’s.  But  the  authorities  do  not  appear  very  happy  over 
the  reduction  in  the  Riverside  population.  You  understand  the 
reason :  the  smaller  the  total,  the  les$  men  may  be  exploited  in 
the  industries.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  whether  there  is 
collusion  between  the  judges  and  the  administration  of  the 
prison,  but  it  is  very  significant  that  the  class  of  offenders 
formerly  sent  to  the  workhouse  are  being  increasingly  sentenced 
to  the  penitentiary,  and  an  unusual  number  are  transferred  here 
from  the  Reformatory  at  Huntington  and  the  Reform  School 
of  Morganza.  The  old-timers  joke  about  the  Warden  telephon¬ 
ing  to  the  Criminal  Court,  to  notify  the  judges  how  many  men 
are  “wanted”  for  the  stocking  shop. 

) 

The  unions  might  be  interested  in  the  methods  of  nullify¬ 
ing  the  convict  labor  law.  In  every  shop  twice  as  many  are 
employed  as  the  statute  allows;  the  “illegal”  are  carried  on  the 
books  as  men  working  on  “State  account”;  that  is,  as  cleaners 
and  clerks,  not  as  producers.  Thus  it  happens  that  in  the  mat 
shop,  for  instance,  more  men  are  booked  as  clerks  and  sweepers 
than  are  employed  on  the  looms !  In  the  broom  shop  there  are 
30  supposed  clerks  and  15  cleaners,  to  a  total  of  53  producers 
legally  permitted.  This  is  the  way  the  legislation  works  on 
which  the  labor  bodies  have  expended  such  tremendous  efforts. 
The  broom  shop  is  still  contracted  to  Lang  Bros.,  with  their 
own  foreman  in  charge,  and  his  son  a  guard  in  the  prison. 

Enough  for  to-day.  When  I  hear  of  the  safe  arrival  of  this 
letter,  I  may  have  more  intimate  things  to  discuss.  A. 


•  ..  > 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


THE  TUNNEL 


I 

The  adverse  decision  of  the  Board  of  Pardons  ter¬ 
minates  all  hope  of  release  by  legal  means.  Had  the 
Board  refused  to  commute  my  sentence  after  hearing 
the  argument,  another  attempt  could  be  made  later  on. 
But  the  refusal  to  grant  a  rehearing,  the  crafty  strata¬ 
gem  to  circumvent  even  the  presentation  of  my  case, 
reveals  the  duplicity  of  the  previous  promise  and  the 
guilty  consciousness  of  the  illegality  of  my  multiplied 
sentences.  The  authorities  are  determined  that  I  should 
remain  in  the  prison,  confident  that  it  will  prove  my 
tomb.  Realizing  this  fires  my  defiance,  and  all  the  stub¬ 
born  resistance  of  my  being.  There  is  no  hope  of  sur¬ 
viving  my  term.  At  best,  even  with  the  full  benefit  of 
the  commutation  time — which  will  hardly  be  granted 
me,  in  view  of  the  attitude  of  the  prison  management — 
I  still  have  over  nine  years  to  serve.  But  existence  is 
becoming  increasingly  more  unbearable;  long  confine¬ 
ment  and  the  solitary  have  drained  my  vitality.  To  en¬ 
dure  the  nine  years  is  almost  a  physical  impossibility.  I 
must  therefore  concentrate  all  my  energy  and  efforts 
upon  escape. 

My  position  as  rangeman  is  of  utmost  advantage.  I 
have  access  to  every  part  of  the  cell-house,  excepting  the 

355 


356  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“crank  row.”  The  incident  of  feeding  the  insane  has 
put  an  embargo  upon  my  communication  with  them,  a 
special  hallboy  having  been  assigned  to  care  for  the  de¬ 
ranged.  But  within  my  area  on  the  range  are  the  recent 
arrivals  and  the  sane  solitaries ;  the  division  of  my  du¬ 
ties  with  the  new  man  merely  facilitates  my  task,  and 
affords  me  more  leisure. 


The  longing  for  liberty  constantly  besets  my  mind, 
suggesting  various  projects.  The  idea  of  escape  daily 
strengthens  into  the  determination  born  of  despair.  It 
possesses  me  with  an  exclusive  passion,  shaping  every 
thought,  molding  every  action.  By  degrees  I  curtail 
correspondence  with  my  prison  chums,  that  I  may  de¬ 
vote  the  solitude  of  the  evening  to  the  development  of 
my  plans.  The  underground  tunnel  masters  my  mind 
with  the  boldness  of  its  conception,  its  tremendous  pos¬ 
sibilities.  But  the  execution!  Why  do  my  friends  re¬ 
gard  the  matter  so  indifferently?  Their  tepidity  irri¬ 
tates  me.  Often  I  lash  myself  into  wild  anger  with  Carl 
for  having  failed  to  impress  my  comrades  with  the 
feasibility  of  the  plan,  to  fire  them  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  activity.  My  sub  rosa  route  is  sporadic  and  uncer¬ 
tain.  Repeatedly  I  have  hinted  to  my  friends  the  bit¬ 
ter  surprise  I  feel  at  their  provoking  indifference;  but 
my  reproaches  have  been  studiously  ignored.  I  cannot 
believe  that  conditions  in  the  movement  preclude  the 
realization  of  my  suggestion.  These  things  have  been 
accomplished  in  Russia.  Why  not  in  America?  The 
attempt  should  be  made,  if  only  for  its  propagandistic 
effect.  True,  the  project  will  require  considerable  out¬ 
lay,  and  the  work  of  skilled  and  trustworthy  men. 
Have  we  no  such  in  our  ranks?  In  Parsons  and  Lum, 
this  country  has  produced  her  Zheliabovs;  is  the  genius 


THE  TUNNEL 


357 


of  America  not  equal  to  a  Hartman?*  The  tacit  skep¬ 
ticism  of  my  correspondents  pains  me,  and  rouses  my 
resentment.  They  evidently  lack  faith  in  the  judgment 
of  “one  who  has  been  so  long  separated”  from  their 
world,  from  the  interests  and  struggles  of  the  living. 
The  consciousness  of  my  helplessness  without  aid  from 
the  outside  gnaws  at  me,  filling  my  days  with  bitterness. 
But  I  will  persevere :  I  will  compel  their  attention  and 
their  activity;  aye,  their  enthusiasm! 

With  utmost  zeal  I  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of 
Tony.  The  months  of  frequent  correspondence  and  oc¬ 
casional  personal  meetings  have  developed  a  spirit  of 
congeniality  and  good  will.  I  exert  my  ingenuity  to 
create  opportunities  for  stolen  interviews  and  closer 
comradeship.  Through  the  aid  of  a  friendly  officer,  I 
procure  for  Tony  the  privilege  of  assisting  his  range- 
man  after  shop  hours,  thus  enabling  him  to  communi¬ 
cate  with  me  to  greater  advantage.  Gradually  we  be¬ 
come  intimate,  and  I  learn  the  story  of  his  life,  rich  in 
adventure  and  experience.  An  Alsatian,  small  and  wiry, 
Tony  is  a  man  of  quick  wit,  with  a  considerable  dash 
of  the  Frenchman  about  him.  He  is  intelligent  and  dar¬ 
ing — the  very  man  to  carry  out  my  plan. 

For  days  I  debate  in  my  mind  the  momentous  ques¬ 
tion:  shall  I  confide  the  project  to  Tony?  It  would  be 
placing  myself  in  his  power,  jeopardizing  the  sole  hope 
of  my  life.  Yet  it  is  the  only  way;  I  must  rely  on  my 
intuition  of  the  man’s  worth.  My  nights  are  sleepless, 
excruciating  with  the  agony  of  indecision.  But  my 
friend’s  sentence  is  nearing  completion.  We  shall  need 
time  for  discussion  and  preparation,  for  thorough  con- 

*  Hartman  engineered  the  tunnel  beneath  the  Moscow  rail¬ 
way,  undermined  in  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  kill  Alexander 
II.,  in  1880. 


35§  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


sideration  of  every  detail.  At  last  I  resolve  to  take  the 
decisive  step,  and  next  day  I  reveal  the  secret  to  Tony. 

His  manner  allays  apprehension.  Serene  and  self- 
possessed,  he  listens  gravely  to  my  plan,  smiles  with  ap¬ 
parent  satisfaction,  and  briefly  announces  that  it  shall 
be  done.  Only  the  shining  eyes  of  my  reticent  comrade 
betray  his  elation  at  the  bold  scheme,  and  his  joy  in  the 
adventure.  He'  is  confident  that  the  idea  is  feasible,  sug¬ 
gesting  the  careful  elaboration  of  details,  and  the  inven¬ 
tion  of  a  cipher  to  insure  greater  safety  for  our  corre¬ 
spondence.  The  precaution  is  necessary;  it  will  prove 
of  inestimable  value  upon  his  release. 

With  great  circumspection  the  cryptogram  is  pre¬ 
pared,  based  on  a  discarded  system  of  German  short¬ 
hand,  but  somewhat  altered,  and  further  involved  by  the 
use  of  words  of  our  own  coinage.  The  cipher,  thus 
perfected,  will  defy  the  skill  of  the  most  expert. 

But  developments  within  the  prison  necessitate 
changes  in  the  project.  The  building  operations  near 
the  bathhouse  destroy  the  serviceability  of  the  latter 
for  my  purpose.  We  consider  several  new  routes, 
but  soon  realize  that  lack  of  familiarity  with  the 
construction  of  the  penitentiary  gas  and  sewer  sys¬ 
tems  may  defeat  our  success.  There  are  no  means 
of  procuring  the  necessary  information:  Tony  is  con¬ 
fined  to  the  shop,  while  I  am  never  permitted  out  of 
the  cell-house.  In  vain  I  strive  to  solve  the  difficulty; 
weeks  pass  without  bringing  light. 

My  Providence  comes  unexpectedly,  in  the  guise 
of  a  fight  in  the  yard.  The  combatants  are  locked 
up  on  my  range.  One  of  them  proves  to  be  “Mac,” 
an  aged  prisoner  serving  a  third  term.  During  his 
previous  confinement,  he  had  filled  the  position  of 
fireman,  one  of  his  duties  consisting  in  the  weekly 
flushing  of  the  sewers.  He  is  thoroughly  familiar 


THE  TUNNEL 


359 


with  the  underground  piping  of  the  yard,  but  his 
reputation  among  the  inmates  is  tinged  with  the  odor 
of  sycophancy.  He  is,  however,  the  only  means  of 
solving  my  difficulty,  and  I  diligently  set  myself  to 
gain  his  friendship.  I  lighten  his  solitary  by  numer¬ 
ous  expressions  of  my  sympathy,  often  secretly  sup¬ 
plying  him  with  little  extras  procured  from  my 
kitchen  friends.  The  loquacious  old  man  is  glad  of 
an  opportunity  to  converse,  and  I  devote  every  pro¬ 
pitious  moment  to  listening  to  his  long-winded  stories 
of  the  “great  jobs”  he  had  accomplished  in  “his” 
time,  the  celebrated  “guns”  with  whom  he  had  asso¬ 
ciated,  the  “great  hauls”  he  had  made  and  “blowed  in 
with  th’  fellers.”  I  suffer  his  chatter  patiently,  encour¬ 
aging  the  recital  of  his  prison  experiences,  and  leading 
him  on  to  dwell  upon  his  last  “bit.”  He  becomes 
reminiscent  of  his  friends  in  Riverside,  bewails  the 
early  graves  of  some,  others  “gone  bugs,”  and  re¬ 
joices  over  his  good  chum  Patty  McGraw  managing 
to  escape.  The  ever-interesting  subject  gives  “Mac” 
a  new  start,  and  he  waxes  enthusiastic  over  the  in¬ 
genuity  of  Patty,  while  I  express  surprise  that  he 
himself  had  never  attempted  to  take  French  leave. 
“What!”  he  bristles  up,  “think  Pm  such  a  dummy?” 
and  with  great  detail  he  discloses  his  plan,  “  ’way  in 
th’  8o’s”  to  swim  through  the  sewer.  I  scoff  at  his 
folly.  “You  must  have  been  a  chump,  Mac,  to  think 
it  could  be  done,”  I  remark.  “I  was,  was  I?  What 
do  you  know  about  the  piping,  eh?  Now,  let  me  tell 
you.  Just  wait,”  and,  snatching  up  his  library  slate, 
he  draws  a  complete  diagram  of  the  prison  sewerage. 
In  the  extreme  southwest  corner  of  the  yard  he  indi¬ 
cates  a  blind  underground  alley. 

“What’s  this?”  I  ask,  in  surprise. 

“Nev’r  knew  that,  did  yer?  It’s  a  little  tunn’l,  con- 


360  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


nectin’  th’  cellar  with  th’  females,  see?  Not  a  dozen 
men  in  th’  dump  know  ’t ;  not  ev’n  a  good  many  screws. 
Passage  ain’t  been  used  fer  a  long  time.” 

In  amazement  I  scan  the  diagram.  I  had  noticed 
a  little  trap  door  at  the  very  point  in  the  yard  indicated 
in  the  drawing,  and  I  had  often  wondered  what  pur¬ 
pose  it  might  serve.  My  heart  dances  with  joy  at  the 
happy  solution  of  my  difficulty.  The  “blind  alley”  will 
greatly  facilitate  our  work.  It  is  within  fifteen  feet, 
or  twenty  at  most,  of  the  southwestern  wall.  Its  situa¬ 
tion  is  very  favorable :  there  are  no  shops  in  the  vicinity ; 
the  place  is  never  visited  by  guards  or  prisoners. 

The  happy  discovery  quickly  matures  the  details  of 
my  plan:  a  house  is  to  be  rented  opposite  the  south¬ 
ern  wall,  on  Sterling  Street.  Preferably  it  is  to  be 
situated  very  near  to  the  point  where  the  wall 
adjoins  the  cell-house  building.  Dug  in  a  direct  line 
across  the  street,  and  underneath  the  south  wall,  the 
tunnel  will  connect  with  the  “blind  alley.”  I  shall 
manage  the  rest. 


II 


Slowly  the  autumn  wanes.  The  crisp  days  of  the 
Indian  summer  linger,  as  if  unwilling  to  depart.  But 
I  am  impatient  with  anxiety,  and  long  for  the  winter. 
Another  month,  and  Tony  will  be  free.  Time  lags 
with  tardy  step,  but  at  last  the  weeks  dwarf  into 
days,  and  with  joyful  heart  we  count  the  last  hours. 

To-morrow  my  friend  will  greet  the  sunshine.  He 
will  at  once  communicate  with  my  comrades,  and  urge 
the  immediate  realization  of  the  great  plan.  His  self- 
confidence  and  faith  will  carry  conviction,  and  stir 
them  with  enthusiasm  for  the  undertaking.  A  house 


THE  TUNNEL 


361 

is  to  be  bought  or  rented  without  loss  of  time,  and 
the  environs  inspected.  Perhaps  operations  could  not 
begin  till  spring;  meanwhile  funds  are  to  be  collected 
to  further  the  work.  Unfortunately,  the  Girl,  a  splen¬ 
did  organizer,  is  absent  from  the  country.  But  my 
friends  will  carefully  follow  the  directions  I  have 
entrusted  to  Tony,  and  through  him  I  shall  keep  in 
touch  with  the  developments.  I  have  little  opportunity 
for  sub  rosa  mail ;  by  means  of  our  cipher,  however,  we 
can  correspond  officially,  without  risk  of  the  censor’s 
understanding,  or  even  suspecting,  the  innocent-looking 
flourishes  scattered  through  the  page. 

With  the  trusted  Tony  my  thoughts  walk  beyond 
the  gates,  and  again  and  again  I  rehearse  every  step  in 
the  project,  and  study  every  detail.  My  mind  dwells 
in  the  outside.  In  silent  preoccupation  I  perform  my 
duties  on  the  range.  More  rarely  I  converse  with 
the  prisoners :  I  must  take  care  to  comply  with  the 
rules,  and  to  retain  my  position.  To  lose  it  would 
be  disastrous  to  all  my  hopes  of  escape. 

As  I  pass  the  vacant  cell,  in  which  I  had  spent  the 
last  year  of  my  solitary,  the  piteous  chirping  of  a 
sparrow  breaks  in  upon  my  thoughts.  The  little  vis¬ 
itor,  almost  frozen,  hops  on  the  bar  above.  My 
assistant  swings  the  duster  to  drive  it  away,  but 
the  sparrow  hovers  about  the  door,  and  suddenly 
flutters  to  my  shoulder.  In  surprise  I  pet  the  bird; 
it  seems  quite  tame.  aWhy,  it’s  Dick!”  the  assistant 
exclaims.  “Think  of  him  coming  back!”  My  hands 
tremble  as  I  examine  the  little  bird.  With  great  joy 
I  discover  the  faint  marks  of  blue  ink  I  had  smeared 
under  its  wings  last  summer,  when  the  Warden  had 
ordered  my  little  companion  thrown  out  of  the  win¬ 
dow.  How  wonderful  that  it  should  return  and 


362  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


recognize  the  old  friend  and  the  cell!  Tenderly  I 
warm  and  feed  the  bird.  What  strange  sights  my 
little  pet  must  have  seen  since  he  was  driven  out  into 
the  world !  what  struggles  and  sorrows  has  he  suf¬ 
fered  !  The  bright  eyes  look  cheerily  into  mine, 
speaking  mute  confidence  and  joy,  while  he  pecks 
from  my  hand  crumbs  of  bread  and  sugar.  Foolish 
birdie,  to  return  to  prison  for  shelter  and  food! 
Cold  and  cruel  must  be  the  world,  my  little  Dick ; 
or  is  it  friendship,  that  is  stronger  than  even  love  of 
liberty  ? 

So  may  it  be.  Almost  daily  I  see  men  pass 
through  the  gates  and  soon  return  again,  driven  back 
by  the  world — even  like  you,  little  Dick.  Yet  others 
there  are  who  would  rather  go  cold  and  hungry  in 
freedom,  than  be  warm  and  fed  in  prison — even  like 
me,  little  Dick.  And  still  others  there  be  who  would 
risk  life  and  liberty  for  the  sake  of  their  friendship 
— even  like  you  and,  I  hope,  Tony,  little  Dick. 


.t  »«# 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


THE  DEATH  OF  DICK 


Sub  Rosa, 

Jan.  15,  1900. 

Tony: 

I  write  in  an  agony  of  despair.  I  am  locked  up  again.  It 
was  all  on  account  of  my  bird.  You  remember  my  feathered 
pet,  Dick.  Last  summer  the  Warden  ordered  him  put  out, 
but  when  cold  weather  set  in,  Dick  returned.  Would  you  believe 
it?  He  came  back  to  my  old  cell,  and  recognized  me  when  I 
passed  by.  I  kept  him,  and  he  grew  as  tame  as  before — he  had 
become  a  bit  wild  in  the  life  outside.  On  Christmas  day,  as  Dick 
was  playing  near  my  cell,  Bob  Runyon — the  stool,  you  know — 
came  by  and  deliberately  kicked  the  bird.  When  I  saw  Dick  turn 
over  on  his  side,  his  little  eyes  rolling  in  the  throes  of  death,  I 
rushed  at  Runyon  and  knocked  him  down.  He  was  not  hurt 
much,  and  everything  could  have  passed  off  quietly,  as  no  screw 
was  about.  But  the  stool  reported  me  to  the  Deputy,  and  I  was 
locked  up. 

Mitchell  has  just  been  talking  to  me.  The  good  old  fellow 
was  fond  of  Dick,  and  he  promises  to  get  me  back  on  the  range. 
He  is  keeping  the  position  vacant  for  me,  he  says;  he  put  a  man 
in  my  place  who  has  only  a  few  more  weeks  to  serve.  Then  I’m 
to  take  charge  again. 

I  am  not  disappointed  at  your  information  that  “the  work” 
will  have  to  wait  till  spring.  It’s  unavoidable,  but  I  am  happy 
that  preparations  have  been  started.  How  about  those  revolvers, 
though?  You  haven’t  changed  your  mind,  I  hope.  In  one  of 
your  letters  you  seem  to  hint  that  the  matter  has  been  attended  to. 
How  can  that  be?  Jim,  the  plumber — you  know  he  can  be 
trusted — has  been  on  the  lookout  for  a  week.  He  assures  me 
that  nothing  came,  so  far.  Why  do  you  delay?  I  hope  you 
didn’t  throw  the  package  through  the  cellar  window  when  Jim 
wasn’t  at  his  post.  Hardly  probable.  But  if  you  did,  what  the 
devil  could  have  become  of  it?  I  see  no  sign  here  of  the  things 
being  discovered :  there  would  surely  be  a  terrible  hubbub.  Look 
to  it,  and  write  at  once.  A. 


363 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS 

I 

The  disappearance  of  the  revolvers  is  shrouded  in 
mystery.  In  vain  I  rack  my  brain  to  fathom  the 
precarious  situation;  it  defies  comprehension  and  tor¬ 
ments  me  with  misgivings.  Jim’s  certainty  that  the 
weapons  did  not  pass  between  the  bars  of  the  cellar, 
momentarily  allays  my  dread.  But  Tony’s  vehement 
insistence  that  he  had  delivered  the  package,  throws 
me  into  a  panic  of  fear.  My  firm  faith  in  the  two 
confidants  distracts  me  with  uncertainty  and  suspense. 
It  is  incredible  that  Tony  should  seek  to  deceive  me. 
Yet  Jim  has  kept  constant  vigil  at  the  point  of  de¬ 
livery;  there  is  little  probability  of  his  having  missed 
the  package.  But  supposing  he  has,  what  has  become 
of  it?  Perhaps  it  fell  into  some  dark  corner  of  the 
cellar.  The  place  must  be  searched  at  once. 

Desperate  with  anxiety,  I  resort  to  the  most  reck¬ 
less  means  to  afford  Jim  an  opportunity  to  visit  the 
cellar.  I  ransack  the  cell-house  for  old  papers  and 
rags;  with  miserly  hand  I  gather  all  odds  and  ends, 
broken  tools,  pieces  of  wood,  a  bucketful  of  sawdust. 
Trembling  with  fear  of  discovery,  I  empty  the  treasure 
into  the  sewer  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  tightly  jam 
the  elbow  of  the  waste  pipe.  The  smell  of  excrement 
fills  the  block,  the  cell  privies  overrun,  and  inundate 

•364 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS  365 

the  hall.  The  stench  is  overpowering;  steadily  the 
water  rises,  threatening  to  flood  the  cell-house.  The 
place  is  in  a  turmoil :  the  solitaries  shout  and  rattle  on 
the  bars,  the  guards  rush  about  in  confusion.  The 
Block  Captain  yells,  “Hey,  Jasper,  hurry!  Call  the 
plumber;  get  Jim.  Quick!” 

But  repeated  investigation  of  the  cellar  fails  to 
disclose  the  weapons.  In  constant  dread  of  dire  pos¬ 
sibilities,  I  tremble  at  every  step,  fancying  lurking 
suspicion,  sudden  discovery,  and  disaster.  But  the 
days  pass;  the  calm  of  the  prison  routine  is  undis¬ 
turbed,  giving  no  indication  of  untoward  happening 
or  agitation.  By  degrees  my  fears  subside.  The  in¬ 
explicable  disappearance  of  the  revolvers  is  fraught 
with  danger ;  the  mystery  is  disquieting,  but  it  has 
fortunately  brought  no  results,  and  must  apparently 
remain  unsolved. 

Unexpectedly  my  fears  are  rearoused.  Called  to 
the  desk  by  Officer  Mitchell  for  the  distribution  of 
the  monthly  allowance  of  matches,  I  casually  glance 
out  of  the  yard  door.  At  the  extreme  northwestern 
end,  Assistant  Deputy  Hopkins  loiters  near  the  wall, 
slowly  walking  on  the  grass.  The  unusual  presence 
of  the  overseer  at  the  abandoned  gate  wakes  my  sus¬ 
picion.  The  singular  idling  of  the  energetic  guard, 
his  furtive  eyeing  of  the  ground,  strengthens  my  worst 
apprehensions.  Something  must  have  happened.  Are 
they  suspecting  the  tunnel?  But  work  has  not  been 
commenced ;  besides,  it  is  to  terminate  at  the  very 
opposite  point  of  the  yard,  fully  a  thousand  feet  dis¬ 
tant.  In  perplexity  I  wonder  at  the  peculiar  actions 
of  Hopkins.  Had  the  weapons  been  found,  every  in¬ 
mate  would  immediately  be  subjected  to  a  search,  and 
shops  and  cell-house  ransacked. 


366  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


In  anxious  speculation  I  pass  a  sleepless  night ; 
morning  dawns  without  bringing  a  solution.  But  after 
breakfast  the  cell-house  becomes  strangely  quiet;  the 
shop  employees  remain  locked  in.  The  rangemen  are 
ordered  to  their  cells,  and  guards  from  the  yard  and 
shops  march  into  the  block,  and  noisily  ascend  the 
galleries.  The  Deputy  and  Hopkins  scurry  about  the 
hall ;  the  rotunda  door  is  thrown  open  with  a  clang, 
and  the  sharp  command  of  the  Warden  resounds 
through  the  cell-house,  “General  search !” 

I  glance  hurriedly  over  my  table  and  shelf.  Surprises 
of  suspected  prisoners  are  frequent,  and  I  am  always 
prepared.  But  some  contraband  is  on  hand.  Quickly 
I  snatch  my  writing  material  from  the  womb  of  the 
bedtick.  In  the  very  act  of  destroying  several  sketches 
of  the  previous  year,  a  bright  thought  flashes  across 
my  mind.  There  is  nothing  dangerous  about  them, 
save  the  theft  of  the  paper.  “Prison  Types,”  “In  the 
Streets  of  New  York,”  “Parkhurst  and  the  Prosti¬ 
tute,”  “Libertas — a  Study  in  Philology,”  “The  Slavery 
of  Tradition” — harmless  products  of  evening  leisure. 
Let  them  find  the  booklets !  I’ll  be  severely  repri¬ 
manded  for  appropriating  material  from  the  shops,  but 
my  sketches  will  serve  to  divert  suspicion:  the  War¬ 
den  will  secretly  rejoice  that  my  mind  is  not  busy  with 
more  dangerous  activities.  But  the  sudden  search 
signifies  grave  developments.  General  overhaulings, 
involving  temporary  suspension  of  the  industries  and 
consequent  financial  loss,  are  rare.  The  search  of  the 
entire  prison  is  not  due  till  spring.  Its  precipitancy 
confirms  my  worst  fears :  the  weapons  have  undoubt¬ 
edly  been  found!  Jim’s  failure  to  get  possession  of 
them  assumes  a  peculiar  aspect.  It  is  possible,  of 
course,  that  some  guard,  unexpectedly  passing  through 
the  cellar,  discovered  the  bundle  between  the  bars,  and 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS 


367 


appropriated  it  without  attracting  Jim’s  notice.  Yet  the 
latter’s  confident  assertion  of  his  presence  at  the  win¬ 
dow  at  the  appointed  moment  indicates  another  proba¬ 
bility.  The  thought  is  painful,  disquieting.  But  who 
knows?  In  an  atmosphere  of  fear  and  distrust  and 
almost  universal  espionage,  the  best  friendships  are 
tinged  with  suspicion.  It  may  be  that  Jim,  afraid 
of  consequences,  surrendered  the  weapons  to  the 
Warden.  He  would  have  no  difficulty  in  explaining 
the  discovery,  without  further  betrayal  of  my  con¬ 
fidence.  Yet  Jim,  a  “pete  man”*  of  international  re¬ 
nown,  enjoys  the  reputation  of  a  thoroughly  “square 
man”  and  loyal  friend.  He  has  given  me  repeated 
proof  of  his  confidence,  and  I  am  disinclined  to 
accuse  a  possibly  innocent  man.  It  is  fortunate,  however, 
that  his  information  is  limited  to  the  weapons.  No 
doubt  he  suspects  some  sort  of  escape;  but  I  have 
left  him  in  ignorance  of  my  real  plans.  With  these 
Tony  alone  is  entrusted. 

The  reflection  is  reassuring.  Even  if  indiscretion 
on  Tony’s  part  is  responsible  for  the  accident,  he  has 
demonstrated  his  friendship.  Realizing  the  danger  of 
his  mission,  he  may  have  thrown  in  the  weapons 
between  the  cellar  bars,  ignoring  my  directions  of  pre¬ 
viously  ascertaining  the  presence  of  Jim  at  his  post. 
But  the  discovery  of  the  revolvers  vindicates  the 
veracity  of  Tony,  and  strengthens  my  confidence  in 
him.  My  fate  rests  in  the  hands  of  a  loyal  comrade, 
a  friend  who  has  already  dared  great  peril  for  my 
sake. 

The  general  search  is  over,  bringing  to  light  quan¬ 
tities  of  various  contraband.  The  counterfeit  outfit, 


*  Safe  blower. 


368  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


whose  product  has  been  circulating  beyond  the  walls 
of  the  prison,  is  discovered,  resulting  in  a  secret  in¬ 
vestigation  by  Federal  officials.  In  the  general  excite¬ 
ment,  the  sketches  among  my  effects  have  been  ig¬ 
nored,  and  left  in  my  possession.  But  no  clew  has 
been  found  in  connection  with  the  weapons.  The 
authorities  are  still  further  mystified  by  the  discovery 
that  the  lock  on  the  trapdoor  in  the  roof  of  the  cell- 
house  building  had  been  tampered  with.  With  an 
effort  I  suppress  a  smile  at  the  puzzled  bewilderment 
of  the  kindly  old  Mitchell,  as,  with  much  secrecy,  he 
confides  to  me  the  information.  I  marvel  at  the  offi¬ 
cial  stupidity  that  failed  to  make  the  discovery  the 
previous  year,  when,  by  the  aid  of  Jim  and  my  young 
friend  Russell,  I  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
cell-house,  while  the  inmates  were  at  church,  and 
wrenched  off  the  lock  of  the  trapdoor,  leaving  in  its 
place  an  apparent  counterpart,  provided  by  Jim.  With 
the  key  in  our  possession,  we  watched  for  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  reach  the  outside  roof,  when  certain  changes 
in  the  block  created  insurmountable  obstacles,  forcing 
the  abandonment  of  the  project.  Russell  was  unhappy 
over  the  discovery,  the  impulsive  young  prisoner  stead¬ 
fastly  refusing  to  be  reconciled  to  the  failure.  His 
time,  however,  being  short,  I  have  been  urging  him  to  ac¬ 
cept  the  inevitable.  The  constant  dwelling  upon  escape 
makes  imprisonment  more  unbearable;  the  passing  of 
his  remaining  two  years  would  be  hastened  by  the 
determination  to  serve  out  his  sentence. 

The  boy  listens  quietly  to  my  advice,  his  blue 
eyes  dancing  with  merriment,  a  sly  smile  on  the  deli¬ 
cate  lips.  “You  are  right,  Aleck,”  he  replies,  gravely, 
“but  say,  last  night  I  thought  out  a  scheme;  it’s  great, 
and  we’re  sure  to  make  our  get-a-way.”  With  minute 
detail  he  pictures  the  impossible  plan  of  sawing  through 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS 


369 


the  bars  of  the  cell  at  night,  ‘‘holding  up”  the  guards, 
binding  and  gagging  them,  and  “then  the  road  would 
be  clear.”  The  innocent  boy,  for  all  his  back-country 
reputation  of  “bad  man,”  is  not  aware  that  “then” 
is  the  very  threshold  of  difficulties.  I  seek  to  explain 
to  him  that,  the  guards  being  disposed  of,  we  should 
find  ourselves  trapped  in  the  cell-house.  The  solid 
steel  double  doors  leading  to  the  yard  are  securely 
locked,  the  key  in  the  sole  possession  of  the  Captain 
of  the  night  watch,  who  cannot  be  reached  except 
through  the  well-guarded  rotunda.  But  the  boy  is  not 
to  be  daunted.  “We’ll  have  to  storm  the  rotunda, 
then,”  he  remarks,  calmly,  and  at  once  proceeds  to 
map  out  a  plan  of  campaign.  He  smiles  incredulously 
at  my  refusal  to  participate  in  the  wild  scheme.  “Oh, 
yes,  you  will,  Aleck.  I  don’t  believe  a  word  you  say. 
I  know  you’re  keen  to  make  a  get-a-way.”  His  con¬ 
fidence  somewhat  shaken  by  my  resolution,  he  announces 
that  he  will  “go  it  alone.” 

The  declaration  fills  me  with  trepidation :  the  reck¬ 
less  youth  will  throw  away  his  life;  his  attempt  may 
frustrate  my  own  success.  But  it  is  in  vain  to  dis¬ 
suade  him  by  direct  means.  I  know  the  determination 
of  the  boy.  The  smiling  face  veils  the  boundless  self- 
assurance  of  exuberant  youth,  combined  with  indomita¬ 
ble  courage.  The  redundance  of  animal  vitality  and 
the  rebellious  spirit  have  violently  disturbed  the  inertia 
of  his  rural  home,  aggravating  its  staid  descendants  of 
Dutch  forbears.  The  taunt  of  “ne’er-do-well”  has 
dripped  bitter  poison  into  the  innocent  pranks  of  Rus¬ 
sell,  stamping  the  brand  of  desperado  upon  the  good- 
natured  boy. 

I  tax  my  ingenuity  to  delay  the  carrying  out  of 
his  project.  He  has  secreted  the  saws  I  had  procured 
from  the  Girl  for  the  attempt  of  the  previous  year, 


37°  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


and  his  determination  is  impatient  to  make  the  dash 
for  liberty.  Only  his  devotion  to  me  and  respect  for 
my  wishes  still  hold  the  impetuous  boy  in  leash.  But 
each  day  his  restlessness  increases;  more  insistently  he 
urges  my  participation  and  a  definite  explanation  of 
my  attitude. 

At  a  loss  to  invent  new  objections,  I  almost  despair 
of  dissuading  Russell  from  his  desperate  purpose. 
From  day  to  day  I  secure  his  solemn  promise  to  await 
my  final  decision,  the  while  I  vaguely  hope  for  some 
development  that  would  force  the  abandonment  of  his 
plan.  But  nothing  disturbs  the  routine,  and  I  grow 
nervous  with  dread  lest  the  boy,  reckless  with  im¬ 
patience,  thwart  my  great  project. 

II 

The  weather  is  moderating;  the  window  sashes  in 
the  hall  are  being  lowered:  the  signs  of  approaching 
spring  multiply.  I  chafe  at  the  lack  of  news  from  Tony, 
who  had  departed  on  his  mission  to  New  York.  With 
greedy  eyes  I  follow  the  Chaplain  on  his  rounds  of  mail 
delivery.  Impatient  of  his  constant  pauses  on  the  gal¬ 
leries,  I  hasten  along  the  range  to  meet  the  postman. 

“Any  letters  for  me,  Mr.  Milligan?”  I  ask,  with  an 
effort  to  steady  my  voice. 

“No,  m’  boy.” 

My  eyes  devour  the  mail  in  his  hand.  “None  to-day, 
Aleck,”  he  adds ;  “this  is  for  your  neighbor  Pasquale.” 

I  feel  apprehensive  at  Tony’s  silence.  Another 
twenty-four  hours  must  elapse  before  the  Chaplain  re¬ 
turns.  Perhaps  there  will  be  no  mail  for  me  to-mor¬ 
row,  either.  What  can  be  the  matter  with  my  friend? 
So  many  dangers  menace  his  every  step — he  might  be 
sick — some  accident  .  .  .  Anxious  days  pass  without 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS 


371 


mail.  Russell  is  becoming  more  insistent,  threatening 
a  “break.”  The  solitaries  murmur  at  my  neglect.  I  am 
nervous  and  irritable.  For  two  weeks  I  have  not  heard 
from  Tony;  something  terrible  must  have  happened. 
In  a  ferment  of  dread,  I  keep  watch  on  the  upper 
rotunda.  The  noon  hour  is  approaching:  the  Chaplain 
fumbles  with  his  keys;  the  door  opens,  and  he  trips 
along  the  ranges.  Stealthily  I  follow  him  under  the 
galleries,  pretending  to  dust  the  bars.  He  descends  to 
the  hall. 

“Good  morning,  Chaplain,”  I  seek  to  attract  his 
attention,  wistfully  peering  at  the  mail  in  his  hand. 

“Good  morning,  m’  boy.  Feeling  good  to-day?” 

“Thank  you;  pretty  fair.”  My  voice  trembles  at 
his  delay,  but  I  fear  betraying  my  anxiety  by  renewed 
questioning. 

He  passes  me,  and  I  feel  sick  with  disappointment. 
Now  he  pauses.  “Aleck,”  he  calls,  “I  mislaid  a  letter 
for  you  yesterday.  Here  it  is.” 

With  shaking  hand  I  unfold  the  sheet.  In  a 
fever  of  hope  and  fear,  I  pore  over  it  in  the  soli¬ 
tude  of  the  cell.  My  heart  palpitates  violently  as  I 
scan  each  word  and  letter,  seeking  hidden  meaning, 
analyzing  every  flourish  and  dash,  carefully  distilling 
the  minute  lines,  fusing  the  significant  dots  into  the  struc¬ 
ture  of  meaning.  Glorious!  A  house  has  been  rented 
— 28  Sterling  Street — almost  opposite  the  gate  of  the 
south  wall.  Funds  are  on  hand,  work  is  to  begin  at 
once ! 

With  nimble  step  I  walk  the  range.  The  river 
wafts  sweet  fragrance  to  my  cell,  the  joy  of  spring  is 
in  my  heart.  Every  hour  brings  me  nearer  to  liberty: 
the  faithful  comrades  are  steadily  working  under¬ 
ground.  Perhaps  within  a  month,  or  two  at  most,  the 
tunnel  will  be  completed.  I  count  the  days,  crossing 


372  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


off  each  morning  the  date  on  my  calendar.  The  news 
from  Tony  is  cheerful,  encouraging:  the  work  is  pro¬ 
gressing  smoothly,  the  prospects  of  success  are  splen¬ 
did.  I  grow  merry  at  the  efforts  of  uninitiated  friends 
in  New  York  to  carry  out  the  suggestions  of  the 
attorneys  to  apply  to  the  Superior  Court  of  the  State 
for  a  writ,  on  the  ground  of  the  unconstitutionality 
of  my  sentence.  I  consult  gravely  with  Mr.  Milligan 
upon  the  advisability  of  the  step,  the  amiable  Chap¬ 
lain  affording  me  the  opportunity  of  an  extra  allowance 
of  letter  paper.  I  thank  my  comrades  for  their  efforts, 
and  urge  the  necessity  of  collecting  funds  for  the 
appeal  to  the  upper  court.  Repeatedly  I  ask  the  advice 
of  the  Chaplain  in  the  legal  matter,  confident  that  my 
apparent  enthusiasm  will  reach  the  ears  of  the  War¬ 
den:  the  artifice  will  mask  my  secret  project  and  lull 
suspicion.  My  official  letters  breathe  assurance  of  suc¬ 
cess,  and  with  much  show  of  confidence  I  impress 
upon  the  trusties  my  sanguine  expectation  of  release. 
I  discuss  the  subject  with  officers  and  stools,  till  pres¬ 
ently  the  prison  is  agog  with  the  prospective  liberation 
of  its  fourth  oldest  inmate.  The  solitaries  charge  me 
with  messages  to  friends,  and  the  Deputy  Warden 
offers  advice  on  behavior  beyond  the  walls.  The 
moment  is  propitious  for  a  bold  stroke.  Confined 
to  the  cell-house,  I  shall  be  unable  to  reach  the  tunnel. 
The  privilege  of  the  yard  is  imperative. 

It  is  June.  Unfledged  birdies  frequently  fall  from 
their  nests,  and  I  induce  the  kindly  runner,  “Southside” 
Johnny,  to  procure  for  me  a  brace  of  sparlings.  I 
christen  the  little  orphans  Dick  and  Sis,  and  the 
memory  of  my  previous  birds  is  revived  among  inmates 
and  officers.  Old  Mitchell  is  in  ecstasy  over  the 
intelligence  and  adaptability  of  my  new  feathered 
friends.  But  the  birds  languish  and  waste  in  the  close 


AN  ALLIANCE  WITH  THE  BIRDS 


373 


air  of  the  block;  they  need  sunshine  and  gravel,  and 
the  dusty  street  to  bathe  in.  Gradually  I  enlist  the 
sympathies  of  the  new  doctor  by  the  curious  per¬ 
formances  of  my  pets.  One  day  the  Warden  strolls 
in,  and  joins  in  admiration  of  the  wonderful  birds. 

“Who  trained  them?”  he  inquires. 

“This  man,”  the  physician  indicates  me.  A  slight 
frown  flits  over  the  Warden’s  face.  Old  Mitchell  winks 
at  me,  encouragingly. 

“Captain,”  I  approach  the  Warden,  “the  birds  are 
sickly  for  lack  of  air.  Will  you  permit  me  to  give 
them  an  airing  in  the  yard?” 

“Why  don’t  you  let  them  go?  You  have  no  per¬ 
mission  to  keep  them.” 

“Oh,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  throw  them  out,”  the 
doctor  intercedes.  “They  are  too  tame  to  take  care 
of  themselves.” 

“Well,  then,”  the  Warden  decides,  “let  Jasper  take 
them  out  every  day.” 

“They  will  not  go  with  any  one  except  myself,”  I 
inform  him.  “They  follow  me  everywhere.” 

The  Warden  hesitates. 

“Why  not  let  Berkman  go  out  with  them  for  a 
few  moments,”  the  doctor  suggests.  “I  hear  you  expect 
to  be  free  soon,”  he  remarks  to  me  casually.  “Your 
case  is  up  for  revision?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,  Berkman,”  the  Warden  motions  to  me,  “I 
will  permit  you  ten  minutes  in  the  yard,  after  your 
sweeping  is  done.  What  time  are  you  through  with  it?” 

“At  9.30  A.  M.” 

“Mr.  Mitchell,  every  morning,  at  9.30,  you  will 
pass  Berkman  through  the  doors.  For  ten  minutes, 


374  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


on  the  watch.”  Then  turning  to  me,  he  adds :  “You 
are  to  stay  near  the  greenhouse;  there  is  plenty  of 
sand  there.  If  you  cross  the  dead  line  of  the  side¬ 
walk,  or  exceed  your  time  a  single  minute,  you  will 
be  punished.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


THE  UNDERGROUND 


May  io,  1900. 

My  Dear  Tony: 

Your  letters  intoxicate  me  with  hope  and  joy.  No 
sooner  have  I  sipped  the  rich  aroma  than  I  am  athirst  for 
more  nectar.  Write  often,  dear  friend;  it  is  the  only  solace 
of  suspense. 

Do  not  worry  about  this  end  of  the  line.  All  is  well. 
By  stratagem  I  have  at  last  procured  the  privilege  of  the 
yard.  Only  for  a  few  minutes  every  morning,  but  I  am 
judiciously  extending  my  prescribed  time  and  area.  The 
prospects  are  bright  here;  every  one  talks  of  my  applica¬ 
tion  to  the  Superior  Court,  and  peace  reigns — you  under¬ 
stand. 

A  pity  I  cannot  write  directly  to  my  dear,  faithful  com¬ 
rades,  your  coworkers.  You  shall  be  the  medium.  Transmit 
to  them  my  deepest  appreciation.  Tell  “Yankee”  and 
“Ibsen”  and  our  Italian  comrades  what  I  feel — I  know  I 
need  not  explain  it  further  to  you.  No  one  realizes  better 
than  myself  the  terrible  risks  they  are  taking,  the  fearful  toil 
in  silence  and  darkness,  almost  within  hearing  of  the  guards. 
The  danger,  the  heroic  self-sacrifice — what  money  could  buy 
such  devotion?  I  grow  faint  with  the  thought  of  their  peril. 
I  could  almost  cry  at  the  beautiful  demonstration  of  soli¬ 
darity  and  friendship.  Dear  comrades,  I  feel  proud  of  you, 
and  proud  of  the  great  truth  of  Anarchism  that  can  pro¬ 
duce  such  disciples,  such  spirit.  I  embrace  you,  my  noble 
comrades,  and  may  you  speed  the  day  that  will  make  me 
happy  with  the  sight  of  your  faces,  the  touch  of  your  hands. 

A. 


376  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


June  5. 

Dear  Tony: 

Your  silence  was  unbearable.  The  suspense  is  terrible. 
Was  it  really  necessary  to  halt  operations  so  long?  I 
am  surprised  you  did  not  foresee  the  shortage  of  air  and 
the  lack  of  light.  You  would  have  saved  so  much  time. 
It  is  a  great  relief  to  know  that  the  work  is  progressing 
again,  and  very  fortunate  indeed  that  “Yankee”  understands 
electricity.  It  must  be  hellish  work  to  pump  air  into  the 
shaft.  Take  precautions  against  the  whir  of  the  machinery. 
The  piano  idea  is  great.  Keep  her  playing  and  singing  as 
much  as  possible,  and  be  sure  you  have  all  windows  open. 
The  beasts  on  the  wall  will  be  soothed  by  the  music,  and 
it  will  drown  the  noises  underground.  Have  an  electric  but¬ 
ton  connected  from  the  piano  to  the  shaft;  when  the  player 
sees  anything  suspicious  on  the  street  or  the  guards  on  the 
wall,  she  can  at  once  notify  the  comrades  to  stop  work. 

I  am  enclosing  the  wall  and  yard  measurements  you 
asked.  But  why  do  you  need  them?  Don’t  bother  with 
unnecessary  things.  From  house  beneath  the  street,  directly 
toward  the  southwestern  wall.  For  that  you  can  procure 
measurements  outside.  On  the  inside  you  require  none. 
Go  under  wall,  about  20-30  feet,  till  you  strike  wall  of 
blind  alley.  Cut  into  it,  and  all  will  be  complete.  Write 
of  progress  without  delay.  Greetings  to  all. 

A. 


7 


June  20. 


Tony  : 

Your  letters  bewilder  me.  Why  has  the  route  been 
changed?  You  were  to  go  to  southwest,  yet  you  say  now 
you  are  near  the  east  wall.  It’s  simply  incredible,  Tony. 
Your  explanation  is  not  convincing.  If  you  found  a  gas 
main  near  the  gate,  you  could  have  gone  around  it;  besides, 
the  gate  is  out  of  your  way  anyhow.  Why  did  you  take 
that  direction  at  all?  I  wish,  Tony,  you  would  follow  my 
instructions  and  the  original  plan.  Your  failure  to  report  the 
change  immediately,  may  prove  fatal.  I  could  have  informed 
you — once  you  were  near  the  southeastern  gate — to  go 


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THE  UNDERGROUND 


377 


directly  underneath;  then  you  would  have  saved  digging 
under  the  wall;  there  is  no  stone  foundation,  of  course, 
beneath  the  gate.  Now  that  you  have  turned  the  south¬ 
east  corner,  you  will  have  to  come  under  the  wall  there, 
and  it  is  the  worst  possible  place,  because  that  particular 
part  used  to  be  a  swamp,  and  I  have  learned  that  it  was 
filled  with  extra  masonry.  Another  point;  an  old  aban¬ 
doned  natural-gas  well  is  somewhere  under  the  east  wall, 
about  300  feet  from  the  gate.  Tell  our  friends  to  be  on 
the  lookout  for  fumes;  it  is  a  very  dangerous  place;  special 
precautions  must  be  taken. 

Do  not  mind  my  brusqueness,  dear  Tony.  My  nerves 
are  on  edge,  the  suspense  is  driving  me  mad.  And  I  must 
mask  my  feelings,  and  smile  and  look  indifferent.  But  I 
haven’t  a  moment’s  peace.  I  imagine  the  most  terrible 
things  when  you  fail  to  write.  Please  be  more  punctual. 
I  know  you  have  your  hands  full;  but  I  fear  I’ll  go  insane 
before  this  thing  is  over.  Tell  me  especially  how  far  you 
intend  going  along  the  east  wall,  and  where  you’ll  come  out. 
This  complicates  the  matter.  You  have  already  gone  a 
longer  distance  than  would  have  been  necessary  per  original 
plan.  It  was  a  grave  mistake,  and  if  you  were  not  such 
a  devoted  friend,  I’d  feel  very  cross  with  you.  Write  at 
once.  I  am  arranging  a  new  sub  rosa  route.  They  are 
building  in  the  yard;  many  outside  drivers,  you  understand. 

A. 


Dear  Tony: 

I’m  in  great  haste  to  send  this.  You  know  the  shed 
opposite  the  east  wall.  It  has  only  a  wooden  floor  and  is  not 
frequented  much  by  officers.  A  few  cons  are  there,  from 
the  stone  pile.  I’ll  attend  to  them.  Make  directly  for  that 
shed.  It’s  a  short  distance  from  wall.  I  enclose  measure¬ 
ments. 

A. 


Tony  : 

You  distract  me  beyond  words.  What  has  become  of 
your  caution,  your  judgment?  A  hole  in  the  grass  will  not 


378  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


do.  I  am  absolutely  opposed  to  it.  There  are  a  score  of 
men  on  the  stone  pile  and  several  screws.  It  is  sure  to  be 
discovered.  And  even  if  you  leave  the  upper  crust  intact 
for  a  foot  or  two,  how  am  I  to  dive  into  the  hole  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  so  many?  You  don’t  seem  to  have  considered  that. 
There  is  only  one  way,  the  one  I  explained  in  my  last.  Go 
to  the  shed;  it’s  only  a  little  more  work,  30-40  feet,  no  more. 
Tell  the  comrades  the  grass  idea  is  impossible.  A  little 
more  effort,  friends,  and  all  will  be  well.  Answer  at  once. 

A. 


Dear  Tony: 

Why  do  you  insist  on  the  hole  in  the  ground?  I  tell 
you  again  it  will  not  do.  I  won’t  consider  it  for  a  moment. 
I  am  on  the  inside — you  must  let  me  decide  what  can  or 
cannot  be  done  here.  I  am  prepared  to  risk  everything  for 
liberty,  would  risk  my  life  a  thousand  times.  I  am  too 
desperate  now  for  any  one  to  block  my  escape;  I’d  break 
through  a  wall  of  guards,  if  necessary.  But  I  still  have  a 
little  judgment,  though  I  am  almost  insane  with  the  sus¬ 
pense  and  anxiety.  If  you  insist  on  the  hole,  I’ll  make  the 
break,  though  there  is  not  one  chance  in  a  hundred  for  suc¬ 
cess.  I  beg  of  you,  Tony,  the  thing  must  be  dug  to  the 
shed;  it’s  only  a  little  way.  After  such  a  tremendous  effort, 
can  we  jeopardize  it  all  so  lightly?  I  assure  you,  the  suc¬ 
cess  of  the  hole  plan  is  unthinkable.  They’d  all  see  me  go 
down  into  it;  I’d  be  followed  at  once — what’s  the  use  talk¬ 
ing. 

Besides,  you  know  I  have  no  revolvers.  Of  course 
I’ll  have  a  weapon,  but  it  will  not  help  the  escape.  Another 
thing,  your  change  of  plans  has  forced  me  to  get  an  assist¬ 
ant.  The  man  is  reliable,  and  I  have  only  confided  to  him 
parts  of  the  project.  I  need  him  to  investigate  around  the 
shed,  take  measurements,  etc.  I  am  not  permitted  anywhere 
near  the  wall.  But  you  need  not  trouble  about  this ;  I’ll  be 
responsible  for  my  friend.  But  I  tell  you  about  it,  so  that 
you  prepare  two  pair  of  overalls  instead  of  one.  Also 
leave  two  revolvers  in  the  house,  money,  and  cipher  direc¬ 
tions  for  us  where  to  go.  None  of  our  comrades  is  to  wait 


THE  UNDERGROUND 


379 


for  us.  Let  them  all  leave  as  soon  as  everything  is  ready. 
But  be  sure  you  don’t  stop  at  the  hole.  Go  to  the  shed, 
absolutely. 

A. 


Tony  : 

The  hole  will  not  do.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more 
impossible  I  find  it.  I  am  sending  an  urgent  call  for  money 
to  the  Editor.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  Get  in  communi¬ 
cation  with  him  at  once.  Use  the  money  to  continue  work 
to  shed. 

A. 


Direct  to  Box  A  7, 
Allegheny  City,  Pa., 
June  25,  1900. 

Dear  Comrade: 

The  Chaplain  was  very  kind  to  permit  me  an  extra  sheet  of 
paper,  on  urgent  business.  I  write  to  you  in  a  very  great  ex¬ 
tremity.  You  are  aware  of  the  efforts  of  my  friends  to  appeal 
my  case.  Read  carefully,  please.  I  have  lost  faith  in  their  at¬ 
torneys.  I  have  engaged  my  own  “lawyers.”  Lawyers  in  quota¬ 
tion  marks — a  prison  joke,  you  see.  I  have  utmost  confidence 
in  these  lawyers.  They  will,  absolutely,  procure  my  release, 
even  if  it  is  not  a  pardon,  you  understand.  I  mean,  we’ll  go  to 
the  Superior  Court,  different  from  a  Pardon  Board — another 
prison  joke. 

My  friends  are  short  of  money.  We  need  some  at  once. 
The  work  is  started,  but  cannot  be  finished  for  lack  of  funds. 
Mark  well  what  I  say :  I'll  not  he  responsible  for  anything — the 
worst  may  happen — unless  money  is  procured  at  once.  You 
have  influence.  I  rely  on  you  to  understand  and  to  act  promptly. 

Your  comrade, 

Alexander  Berkman. 


380  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST, 


My  Poor  Tony: 

I  can  see  how  this  thing  has  gone  on  your  nerves.  To 
think  that  you,  you  the  cautious  Tony,  should  be  so  reck¬ 
less — to  send  me  a  telegram.  You  could  have  ruined  the 
whole  thing.  I  had  trouble  explaining  to  the  Chaplain,  but 
it’s  all  right  now.  Of  course,  if  it  must  be  the  hole,  it 
can’t  be  helped.  I  understood  the  meaning  of  your  wire: 
from  the  seventh  bar  on  the  east  wall,  ten  feet  to  west. 
We’ll  be  there  on  the  minute — 3  P.  M.  Rut  July  4th  won’t 
do.  It’s  a  holiday:  no  work;  my  friend  will  be  locked  up. 
Can’t  leave  him  in  the  lurch.  It  will  have  to  be  next  day, 
July  5th.  It’s  only  three  days  more.  I  wish  it  was  over;  I 
can’t  bear  the  worry  and  suspense  any  more.  May  it  be  my 
Independence  Day! 

A. 


*  « 

July  6. 

Tony: 

It’s  terrible.  It’s  all  over.  Couldn’t  make  it.  Went 
there  on  time,  but  found  a  big  pile  of  stone  and  brick  right 
on  top  of  the  spot.  Impossible  to  do  anything.  I  warned 
you  they  were  building  near  there.  I  was  seen  at  the  wall — 
am  now  strictly  forbidden  to  leave  the  cell-house.  But  my 
friend  has  been  there  a  dozen  times  since — the  hole  can’t 
be  reached :  a  mountain  of  stone  hides  it.  It  won’t  be  dis¬ 
covered  for  a  little  while.  Telegraph  at  once  to  New  York 
for  more  money.  You  must  continue  to  the  shed.  I  can 
force  my  way  there,  if  need  be.  It’s  the  only  hope.  Don’t 
lose  a  minute. 

A. 


July  13- 

Tony  : 

A  hundred  dollars  was  sent  to  the  office  for  me  from 
New  York.  I  told  Chaplain  it  is  for  my  appeal.  I  am  send¬ 
ing  the  money  to  you.  Have  work  continued  at  once.  There 


THE  UNDERGROUND 


381 


is  still  hope.  Nothing  suspected.  But  the  wire  that  you 
pushed  through  the  grass  to  indicate  the  spot,  was  not  found 
by  my  friend.  Too  much  stone  over  it.  Go  to  shed  at 
once. 

A. 


July  16. 

Tunnel  discovered.  Lose  no  time.  Leave  the  city 
immediately.  I  am  locked  up  on  suspicion. 


A. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


ANXIOUS  DAYS 

The  discovery  of  the  tunnel  overwhelms  me  with 
the  violence  of  an  avalanche.  The  plan  of  continuing 
the  work,  the  trembling  hope  of  escape,  of  liberty,  life 
— all  is  suddenly  terminated.  My  nerves,  tense  with 
the  months  of  suspense  and  anxiety,  relax  abruptly. 
With  torpid  brain  I  wonder,  “Is  it  possible,  is  it  really 
possible?” 

An  air  of  uneasiness,  as  of  lurking  danger,  fills 
the  prison.  Vague  rumors  are  afloat:  a  wholesale  jail 
delivery  had  been  planned,  the  walls  were  to  be 
dynamited,  the  guards  killed.  An  escape  has  actually 
taken  place,  it  is  whispered  about.  The  Warden  wears 
a  look  of  bewilderment  and  fear;  the  officers  are  alert 
with  suspicion.  The  inmates  manifest  disappointment 
and  nervous  impatience.  The  routine  is  violently  dis¬ 
turbed  :  the  shops  are  closed,  the  men  locked  in  the  cells. 

The  discovery  of  the  tunnel  mystifies  the  prison  and 
the  city  authorities.  Some  children,  at  play  on  the 

.  street,  had  accidentally  wandered  into  the  yard  of  the 
deserted  house  opposite  the  prison  gates.  The  piles 
of  freshly  dug  soil  attracted  their  attention;  a  boy, 
stumbling  into  the  cellar,  was  frightened  by  the 
sight  of  the  deep  cavern;  his  mother  notified  the  agent 
of  the  house,  who,  by  a  peculiar  coincidence,  proved 
to  be  an  officer  of  the  penitentiary.  But  in  vain  are 
the  efforts  of  the  prison  authorities  to  discover  any 
sign  of  the  tunnel  within  the  walls.  Days  pass  in  the 
fruitless  investigation  of  the  yard — the  outlet  of  the 

382 


ANXIOUS  DAYS 


383 


tunnel  within  the  prison  cannot  be  found.  Perhaps  the 
underground  passage  does  not  extend  to  the  peni¬ 
tentiary?  The  Warden  voices  his  firm  conviction  that 
the  walls  have  not  been  penetrated.  Evidently  it  was 
not  the  prison,  he  argues,  which  was  the  objective 
point  of  the  diggers.  The  authorities  of  the  City  of 
Allegheny  decide  to  investigate  the  passage  from  the 
house  on  Sterling  Street.  But  the  men  that  essay  to 
crawl  through  the  narrow  tunnel  are  forced  to  abandon 
their  mission,  driven  back  by  the  fumes  of  escaping 
gas.  It  is  suggested  that  the  unknown  diggers,  what¬ 
ever  their  purpose,  have  been  trapped  in  the  aban¬ 
doned  gas  well  and  perished  before  the  arrival  of  aid. 
The  fearful  stench  no  doubt  indicates  the  decomposi¬ 
tion  of  human  bodies;  the  terrible  accident  has  forced 
the  inmates  of  28  Sterling  Street  to  suspend  their 
efforts  before  completing  the  work.  The  condition 
of  the  house — the  half-eaten  meal  on  the  table,  the 
clothing  scattered  about  the  rooms,  the  general  dis¬ 
order — all  seem  to  point  to  precipitate  flight. 

The  persistence  of  the  assertion  of  a  fatal  acci¬ 
dent  disquiets  me,  in  spite  of  my  knowledge  to  the 
contrary.  Yet,  perhaps  the  reckless  Tony,  in  his 
endeavor  to  force  the  wire  signal  through  the  upper 
crust,  perished  in  the  well.  The  thought  unnerves  me 
with  horror,  till  it  is  announced  that  a  negro,  whom 
the  police  had  induced  to  crawl  the  length  of  the 
tunnel,  brought  positive  assurance  that  no  life  was 
sacrificed  in  the  underground  work.  Still  the  prison 
authorities  are  unable  to  find  the  objective  point,  and 
it  is  finally  decided  to  tear  up  the  streets  beneath 
which  the  tunnel  winds  its  mysterious  way. 

The  undermined  place  inside  the  walls  at  last  being 
discovered  after  a  week  of  digging  at  various  points  in 


384  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  yard,  the  Warden  reluctantly  admits  the  apparent 
purpose  of  the  tunnel,  at  the  same  time  informing 
the  press  that  the  evident  design  was  the  liberation  of 
the  Anarchist  prisoner.  He  corroborates  his  view  by 
the  circumstance  that  I  had  been  reported  for  unper¬ 
mitted  presence  at  the  east  wall,  pretending  to  collect 
gravel  for  my  birds.  Assistant  Deputy  Warden  Hop¬ 
kins  further  asserts  having  seen  and  talked  with  Carl 
Nold  near  the  “criminal”  house,  a  short  time  before  the 
discovery  of  the  tunnel.  The  developments,  fraught 
with  danger  to  my  friends,  greatly  alarm  me.  Fortu¬ 
nately,  no  clew  can  be  found  in  the  house,  save  a  note 
in  cipher  which  apparently  defies  the  skill  of  experts. 
The  Warden,  on  his  Sunday  rounds,  passes  my  cell, 
then  turns  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  something.  “Here, 
Berkman,”  he  says  blandly,  producing  a  paper,  “the 
press  is  offering  a  considerable  reward  to  any  one 
who  will  decipher  the  note  found  in  the  Sterling  Street 
house.  It’s  reproduced  here.  See  if  you  can’t  make 
it  out.”  I  scan  the  paper  carefully,  quickly  reading 
Tony’s  directions  for  my  movements  after  the  escape. 
Then,  returning  the  paper,  I  remark  indifferently, 
“I  can  read  several  languages,  Captain,  but  this  is  be¬ 
yond  me.” 

The  police  and  detective  bureaus  of  the  twin  cities 
make  the  announcement  that  a  thorough  investigation 
conclusively  demonstrates  that  the  tunnel  was  intended 
for  William  Boyd,  a  prisoner  serving  twelve  years  for 
a  series  of  daring  forgeries.  His  “pals”  had  succeeded 
in  clearing  fifty  thousand  dollars  on  forged  bonds,  and 
it  is  they  who  did  the  wonderful  feat  underground, 
to  secure  the  liberty  of  the  'valuable  penman.  The 
controversy  between  the  authorities  of  Allegheny  and 
the  management  of  the  prison  is  full  of  animosity 
and  bitterness.  Wardens  of  prisons,  chiefs  of  police, 


ANXIOUS  DAYS 


385 


and  detective  departments  of  various  cities  are  con¬ 
sulted  upon  the  mystery  of  the  ingenious  diggers,  and 
the  discussion  in  the  press  waxes  warm  and  antago¬ 
nistic.  Presently  the  chief  of  police  of  Allegheny  suf¬ 
fers  a  change  of  heart,  and  sides  with  the  Warden,  as 
against  his  personal  enemy,  the  head  of  the  Pittsburgh 
detective  bureau.  The  confusion  of  published  views,  and 
my  persistent  denial  of  complicity  in  the  tunnel,  cause 
the  much-worried  Warden  to  fluctuate.  A  number  of 
men  are  made  the  victims  of  his  mental  uncertainty. 
Following  my  exile  into  solitary,  Pat  McGraw  is  locked 
up  as  a  possible  beneficiary  of  the  planned  escape.  In 
1890  he  had  slipped  through  the  roof  of  the  prison, 
the  Warden  argues,  and  it  is  therefore  reasonable  to 
assume  that  the  man  is  meditating  another  delivery. 
Jack  Robinson,  Cronin,  “Nan,”  and  a  score  of  others, 
are  in  turn  suspected  by  Captain  Wright,  and  ordered 
locked  up  during  the  preliminary  investigation.  But 
because  of  absolute  lack  of  clews  the  prisoners  are 
presently  returned  to  work,  and  the  number  of  “sus¬ 
pects”  'is  reduced  to  myself  and  Boyd,  the  Warden 
having  discovered  that  the  latter  had  recently  made  an 
attempt  to  escape  by  forcing  an  entry  into  the  cupola 
of  the  shop  he  was  employed  in,  only  to  find  the  place 
useless  for  his  purpose. 

A  process  of  elimination  and  the  espionage  of  the 
trusties  gradually  center  exclusive  suspicion  upon  my-  , 
self.  In  surprise  I  learn  that  young  Russell  has  been 
cited  before  the  Captain.  The  fear  of  indiscretion 
on  the  part  of  the  boy  startles  me  from  my  torpor.  I 
must  employ  every  device  to  confound  the  authorities 
and  save  my  friends.  Fortunately  none  of  the  tunnelers 
have  yet  been  arrested,  the  controversy  between  the 
city  officials  and  the  prison  management  having  favored 
inaction.  My  comrades  cannot  be  jeopardized  by  Rus- 


386  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


sell.  His  information  is  limited  to  the  mere  knowledge 
of  the  specific  person  for  whom  the  tunnel  was  in¬ 
tended;  the  names  of  my  friends  are  entirely  unfamiliar 
to  him.  My  heart  goes  out  to  the  young  prisoner, 
as  I  reflect  that  never  once  had  he  manifested  curi¬ 
osity  concerning  the  men  at  the  secret  work.  Des¬ 
perate  with  confinement,  and  passionately  yearning  for 
liberty  though  he  was,  he  had  yet  offered  to  sacrifice  his 
longings  to  aid  my  escape.  How  transported  with 
joy  was  the  generous  youth  when  I  resolved  to  share 
my  opportunity  with  him !  He  had  given  faithful 
service  in  attempting  to  locate  the  tunnel  entrance;  the 
poor  boy  had  been  quite  distracted  at  our  failure  to 
find  the  spot.  I  feel  confident  Russell  will  not  betray 
the  secret  in  his  keeping.  Yet  the  persistent  question¬ 
ing  by  the  Warden  and  Inspectors  is  perceptibly  work¬ 
ing  on  the  boy’s  mind.  He  is  so  young  and  inex¬ 
perienced — barely  nineteen;  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  an 
inadvertent  remark,  might  convert  suspicion  into  con¬ 
viction. 

Every  day  Russell  is  called  to  the  office,  causing 
me  torments  of  apprehension  and  dread,  till  a  glance 
at  the  returning  prisoner,  smiling  encouragingly  as  he 
passes  my  cell,  informs  me  that  the  danger  is  past  for 
the  day.  With  a  deep  pang,  I  observe  the  increasing 
pallor  of  his  face,  the  growing  restlessness  in  his  eyes, 
the  languid  step.  The  continuous  inquisition  is  break¬ 
ing  him  down.  With  quivering  voice  he  whispers  as 
he  passes,  “Aleck,  I’m  afraid  of  them.”  The  Warden 
has  threatened  him,  he  informs  me,  if  he  persists  in 
his  pretended  ignorance  of  the  tunnel.  His  friendship 
for  me  is  well  known,  the  Warden  reasons;  we  have 
often  been  seen  together  in  the  cell-house  and  yard; 
I  must  surely  have  confided  to  Russell  my  plans  of 
escape.  The  big,  strapping  youth  is  dwindling  to  a 


ANXIOUS  DAYS 


387 


shadow  under  the  terrible  strain.  Dear,  faithful  friend! 
How  guilty  I  feel  toward  you,  how  torn  in  my  inmost 
heart  to  have  suspected  your  devotion,  even  for  that 
brief  instant  when,  in  a  panic  of  fear,  you  had  denied 
to  the  Warden  all  knowledge  of  the  slip  of  paper 
found  in  your  cell.  It  cast  suspicion  upon  me  as  the 
writer  of  the  strange  Jewish  scrawl.  The  Warden 
scorned  my  explanation  that  Russell’s  desire  to  learn 
Hebrew  was  the  sole  reason  for  my  writing  the  alpha¬ 
bet  for  him.  The  mutual  denial  seemed  to  point  to 
some  secret;  the  scrawl  was  similar  to  the  cipher  note 
found  in  the  Sterling  Street  house,  the  Warden  in¬ 
sisted.  How  strange  that  I  should  have  so  success¬ 
fully  confounded  the  Inspectors  with  the  contradictory 
testimony  regarding  the  tunnel,  that  they  returned  me 
to  my  position  on  the  range.  And  yet  the  insignificant 
incident  of  Russell’s  hieroglyphic  imitation  of  the 
Hebrew  alphabet  should  have  given  the  Warden  a  pre¬ 
text  to  order  me  into  solitary !  How  distracted  and 
bitter  I  must  have  felt  to  charge  the  boy  with  treachery ! 
His  very  reticence  strengthened  my  suspicion,  and  all 
the  while  the  tears  welled  into  his  throat,  choking  the 
innocent  lad  beyond  speech.  How  little  I  suspected 
the  terrible  wound  my  hasty  imputation  had  caused 
my  devoted  friend !  In  silence  he  suffered  for  months, 
without  opportunity  to  explain,  when  at  last,  by  mere 
accident,  I  learned  the  fatal  mistake. 

In  vain  I  strive  to  direct  my  thoughts  into  different 
channels.  My  misunderstanding  of  Russell  plagues  me 
with  recurring  persistence;  the  unjust  accusation  tor¬ 
ments  my  sleepless  nights.  It  was  a  moment  of  intense 
joy  that  I  experienced  as  I  humbly  begged  his  pardon 
to-day,  when  I  met  him  in  the  Captain’s  office.  A  deep 
sense  of  relief,  almost  of  peace,  filled  me  at  his  unhesi¬ 
tating,  “Oh,  never  mind,  Aleck,  it’s  all  right;  we  were 


388  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


both  excited.”  I  was  overcome  by  thankfulness  and  ad¬ 
miration  of  the  noble  boy,  and  the  next  instant  the  sight 
of  his  wan  face,  his  wasted  form,  pierced  me  as  with 
a  knife-thrust.  With  the  earnest  conviction  of  strong 
faith  I  sought  to  explain  to  the  Board  of  Inspectors 
the  unfortunate  error  regarding  the  Jewish  writing. 
But  they  smiled  doubtfully.  It  was  too  late:  their 
opinion  of  a  prearranged  agreement  with  Russell  was 
settled.  But  the  testimony  of  Assistant  Deputy  Hop¬ 
kins  that  he  had  seen  and  conversed  with  Nold  a  few 
weeks  before  the  discovery  of  the  tunnel,  and  that 
he  saw  him  enter  the  “criminal”  house,  afforded  me 
an  opportunity  to  divide  the  views  among  the  Inspec¬ 
tors.  I  experienced  little  difficulty  in  convincing  two 
members  of  the  Board  that  Nold  could  not  possibly 
have  been  connected  with  the  .tunnel,  because  for  almost 
a  year  previously,  and  since,  he  had  been  in  the  employ 
of  a  St.  Louis  firm.  ,  They  accepted  my  offer  to  prove 
by  the  official  time-tables  of  the  company  that  Nold 
was  in  St.  Louis  on  the  very  day  that  Hopkins  claimed 
to  have  spoken  with  him.  The  fortunate  and  very 
natural  error  of  Hopkins  in  mistaking  the  similar  ap¬ 
pearance  of  Tony  for  that  of  Carl,  enabled  me  to  dis¬ 
credit  the  chief  link  connecting  my  friends  with  the 
tunnel.  The  diverging  views  of  the  police  officials  of 
the  twin  cities  still  further  confounded  the  Inspectors, 
and  I  was  gravely  informed  by  them  that  the  charge 
of  attempted  escape  against  me  had  not  been  conclu¬ 
sively  substantiated.  They  ordered  my  reinstatement 
as  rangeman,  but  the  Captain,  on  learning  the  verdict, 
at  once  charged  me  before  the  Board  with  conducting 
a  secret  correspondence  with  Russell.  On  the  pretext 
of  the  alleged  Hebrew  note,  the  Inspectors  confirmed 
the  Warden’s  judgment,  and  I  was  sentenced  to  the 
solitary  and  immediately  locked  up  in  the  South  Wing, 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


“HOW  MEN  THEIR  BROTHERS  MAIM” 

I 

The  solitary  is  stifling  with  the  August  heat.  The 
hall  windows,  high  above  the  floor,  cast  a  sickly  light, 
shrouding  the  bottom  range  in  darksome  gloom.  At 
every  point,  my  gaze  meets  the  irritating  white  of  the 
walls,  in  spots  yellow  with  damp.  The  long  days  are 
oppressive  with  silence ;  the  stone  cage  echoes  my 
languid  footsteps  mournfully. 

Once  more  I  feel  cast  into  the  night,  torn  from 
the  midst  of  the  living.  The  failure  of  the  tunnel  for¬ 
ever  excludes  the  hope  of  liberty.  Terrified  by  the 
possibilities  of  the  planned  escape,  the  Warden’s  de¬ 
termination  dooms  my  fate.  I  shall  end  my  days  in 
strictest  seclusion,  he  has  informed  me.  Severe  pun¬ 
ishment  is  visited  upon  any  one  daring  to  converse 
with  me;  even  officers  are  forbidden  to  pause  at  my 
cell.  Old  Evans,  the  night  guard,  is  afraid  even  to 
answer  my  greeting,  since  he  was  disciplined  with  the 
loss  of  ten  days’  pay  for  being  seen  at  my  door.  It 
was  not  his  fault,  poor  old  man.  The  night  was  sul¬ 
try;  the  sashes  of  the  hall  window  opposite  my  cell  were 
tightly  closed.  Almost  suffocated  with  the  foul  air,  I 
requested  the  passing  Evans  to  raise  the  window.  It 
had  been  ordered  shut  by  the  Warden,  he  informed  me. 
As  he  turned  to  leave,  three  sharp  raps  on  the  bars  of 

389 


390  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


the  upper  rotunda  almost  rooted  him  to  the  spot  with 
amazement.  It  was  2  a.  m.  No  one  was  supposed  to 
be  there  at  night.  “Come  here,  Evans!”  I  recognized 
the  curt  tones  of  the  Warden.  “What  business  have  you 
at  that  man’s  door?”  I  could  distinctly  hear  each  word, 
cutting  the  stillness  of  the  night.  In  vain  the  frightened 
officer  sought  to  explain :  he  had  merely  answered  a  ques¬ 
tion,  he  had  stopped  but  a  moment.  “I’ve  been  watching 
you  there  for  half  an  hour,”  the  irate  Warden  insisted. 
“Report  to  me  in  the  morning.” 

Since  then  the  guards  on  their  rounds  merely 
glance  between  the  bars,  and  pass  on  in  silence.  I  have 
been  removed  within  closer  observation  of  the  nightly 
prowling  Captain,  and  am  now  located  near  the  ro¬ 
tunda,  in  the  second  cell  on  the  ground  floor,  Range  Y. 
The  stringent  orders  of  exceptional  surveillance  have 
so  terrorized  my  friends  that  they  do  not  venture 
to  look  in  my  direction.  A  special  officer  has  been 
assigned  to  the  vicinity  of  my  door,  his  sole  duty  to 
keep  me  under  observation.  I  feel  buried  alive.  Com¬ 
munication  with  my  comrades  has  been  interrupted, 
the  Warden  detaining  my  mail.  I  am  deprived  of  books 
and  papers,  all  my  privileges  curtailed.  If  only  I  had 
my  birds!  The  company  of  my  little  pets  would  give 
me  consolation.  But  they  have  been  taken  from  me, 
and  I  fear  the  guards  have  killed  them.  Deprived  of 
work  and  exercise  I  pass  the  days  in  the  solitary, 
monotonous,  interminable. 


II 

By  degrees  anxiety  over  my  friends  is  allayed. 
The  mystery  of  the  tunnel  remains  unsolved.  The 
Warden  reiterates  his  moral  certainty  that  the  under¬ 
ground  passage  was  intended  for  the  liberation  of  the 


“HOW  MEN  THEIR  BROTHERS  MAIM” 


391 


Anarchist  prisoner.  The  views  of  the  police  and 
detective  officials  of  the  twin  cities  are  hopelessly 
divergent.  Each  side  asserts  thorough  familiarity  with 
the  case,  and  positive  conviction  regarding  the  guilty 
parties.  But  the  alleged  clews  proving  misleading,  the 
matter  is  finally  abandoned.  The  passage  has  been 
filled  with  cement,  and  the  official  investigation  is 
terminated. 

The  safety  of  my  comrades  sheds  a  ray  of  light 
into  the  darkness  of  my  existence.  It  is  consoling  to 
reflect  that,  disastrous  as  the  failure  is  to  myself,  my 
friends  will  not  be  made  victims  of  my  longing  for 
liberty.  At  no  time  since  the  discovery  of  the  tunnel 
has  suspicion  been  directed  to  the  right  persons.  The 
narrow  official  horizon  does  not  extend  beyond  the 
familiar  names  of  the  Girl,  Nold,  and  Bauer.  These 
have  been  pointed  at  by  the  accusing  finger  repeatedly, 
but  the  men  actually  concerned  in  the  secret  attempt 
have  not  even  been  mentioned.  No  danger  threatens 
them  from  the  failure  of  my  plans.  In  a  communication 
to  a  local  newspaper,  Nold  has  incontrovertibly  proved  his 
continuous  residence  in  St.  Louis  for  a  period  covering  a 
year  previous  to  the  tunnel  and  afterwards.  Bauer 
has  recently  married;  at  no  time  have  the  police  been 
in  ignorance  of  his  whereabouts,  and  they  are  aware 
that  my  former  fellow-prisoner  is  to  be  discounted  as 
a  participator  in  the  attempted  escape.  Indeed,  the  prison 
officials  must  have  learned  from  my  mail  that  the  big 
German  is  regarded  by  my  friends  as  an  ex-comrade 
merely.  But  the  suspicion  of  the  authorities  directed 
toward  the  Girl — with  a  pang  of  bitterness,  I  think  of 
her  unfortunate  absence  from  the  country  during  the 
momentous  period  of  the  underground  work.  With 
resentment  I  reflect  that  but  for  that  I  might  now  be 
at  liberty!  Her  skill  as  an  organizer,  her  growing 


392  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


influence  in  the  movement,  her  energy  and  devotion, 
would  have  assured  the  success  of  the  undertaking.  But 
Tony’s  unaccountable  delay  had  resulted  in  her  departure 
without  learning  of  my  plans.  It  is  to  him,  to  his  ob¬ 
stinacy  and  conceit,  that  the  failure  of  the  project  is 
mostly  due,  staunch  and  faithful  though  he  is. 

In  turn  I  lay  the  responsibility  at  the  door  of  this 
friend  and  that,  lashing  myself  into  furious  rage  at  the 
renegade  who  had  appropriated  a  considerable  sum  of  the 
money  intended  for  the  continuation  of  the  underground 
work.  Yet  the  outbursts  of  passion  spent,  I  strive 
to  find  consolation'  in  the  correctness  of  the  intuitive 
judgment  that  prompted  the  selection  of  my  “lawyers,” 
the  devoted  comrades  who  so  heroically  toiled  for  my 
sake  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  Half-naked  they  had 
labored  through  the  weary  days  and  nights,  stretched 
at  full  length  in  the  narrow  passage,  their  bodies  per¬ 
spiring  and  chilled  in  turn,  their  hands  bleeding  with 
the  terrible  toil.  And  through  the  weeks  and  months 
of  nerve-racking  work  and  confinement  in  the  tunnel, 
of  constant  dread  of  detection  and  anxiety  over  the 
result,  my  comrades  had  uttered  no  word  of  doubt  or 
fear,  in  full  reliance  upon  their  invisible  friend.  What 
self-sacrifice  in  behalf  of  one  whom  some  of  you  had 
never  even  known !  Dear,  beloved  comrades,  had  you 
succeeded,  my  life  could  never  repay  your  almost  super¬ 
human  efforts  and  love.  Only  the  future  years  of  active 
devotion  to  our  great  common  Cause  could  in  a  measure 
express  my  thankfulness  and  pride  in  you,  whoever, 
wherever  you  are.  Nor  were  your  heroism,  your 
skill  and  indomitable  perseverance,  without  avail. 
You  have  given  an  invaluable  demonstration  of  the 
elemental  reality  of  the  Ideal,  of  the  marvelous  strength 
and  courage  born  of  solidaric  purpose,  of  the  heights 
devotion  to  a  great  Cause  can  ascend.  And  the  lesson 


“HOW  MEN  THEIR  BROTHERS  MAIM” 


393 


has  not  been  lost.  Almost  unanimous  is  the  voice 
of  the  press — only  Anarchists  could  have  achieved  the 
wonderful  feat ! 

The  subject  of  the  tunnel  fascinates  my  mind.  How 
little  thought  I  had  given  to  my  comrades,  toiling  under¬ 
ground,  in  the  anxious  days  of  my  own  apprehension 
and  suspense !  With  increasing  vividness  I  visualize 
their  trepidation,  the  constant  fear  of  discovery,  the 
herculean  efforts  in  spite  of  ever-present  danger.  How 
terrible  must  have  been  their  despair  at  the  inability 
to  continue  the  work  to  a  successful  termination!  .  .  . 

My  reflections  fill  me  with  renewed  strength.  I 
must  live !  I  must  live  to  meet  those  heroic  men,  to 
take  them  by  the  hand,  and  with  silent  lips  pour  my 
heart  into  their  eyes.  I  shall  be  proud  of  their  com¬ 
radeship,  and  strive  to  be  worthy  of  it. 

Ill 

The  lines  form  in  the  hallway,  and  silently  march 
to  the  shops.  I  peer  through  the  bars,  for  the  sight 
of  a  familiar  face  brings  cheer,  and  the  memory  of 
the  days  on  the  range.  Many  friends,  unseen  for  years, 
pass  by  my  cell.  How  Big  Jack  has  wasted!  The 
deep  chest  is  sunk  in,  the  face  drawn  and  yellow,  with 
reddish  spots  about  the  cheekbones.  Poor  Jack,  so 
strong  and  energetic,  how  languid  and  weak  his  step  is 
now!  And  Jimmy  is  all  broken  up  with  rheumatism, 
and  hops  on  crutches.  With  difficulty  I  recognize  Harry 
Fisher.  The  two  years  have  completely  changed  the 
young  Morganza  boy.  He  looks  old  at  seventeen,  the 
rosy  cheeks  a  ghastly  white,  the  delicate  features  immo¬ 
bile,  hard,  the  large  bright  eyes  dull  and  glassy.  Vividly 
my  friends  stand  before  me  in  the  youth  and  strength  of 


394  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


their  first  arrival.  How  changed  their  appearance !  My 
poor  chums,  readers  of  the  Prison  Blossoms ,  helpers  in 
our  investigation  efforts,  what  wrecks  the  torture  of  hell 
has  made  of  you !  I  recall  with  sadness  the  first  years 
of  my  imprisonment,  and  my  coldly  impersonal  valuation 
of  social  victims.  There  is  Evans,  the  aged  burglar, 
smiling  furtively  at  me  from  the  line.  Far  in  the  dis¬ 
tance  seems  the  day  when  I  read  his  marginal  note  upon 
a  magazine  article  I  sent  him,  concerning  the  stupendous 
cost  of  crime.  I  had  felt  quite  piqued  at  the  flippancy  of 
his  comment,  “We  come  high,  but  they  must  have  us.” 
With  the  severe  intellectuality  of  revolutionary  tradi¬ 
tion,  I  thought  of  him  and  his  kind  as  inevitable  fungus 
growths,  the  rotten  fruit  of  a  decaying  society.  Un¬ 
fortunate  derelicts,  indeed,  yet  parasites,  almost  devoid 
of  humanity.  But  the  threads  of  comradeship  have 
slowly  been  woven  by  common  misery.  The  touch  of 
sympathy  has  discovered  the  man  beneath  the  criminal; 
the  crust  of  sullen  suspicion  has  melted  at  the  breath  of 
kindness,  warming  into  view  the  palpitating  human  heart. 
Old  Evans  and  Sammy  and  Bob, — what  suffering  and 
pain  must  have  chilled  their  fiery  souls  with  the  winter 
of  savage  bitterness!  And  the  resurrection  trembles 
within !  How  terrible  man’s  ignorance,  that  forever  con¬ 
demns  itself  to  be  scourged  by  its  own  blind  fury !  And 
these  my  friends,  Davis  and  Russell,  these  innocently 
guilty, — what  worse  punishment  could  society  inflict  upon 
itself,  than  the  loss  of  their  latent  nobility  which  it  had 
killed?  .  .  .  Not  entirely  in  vain  are  the  years  of  suffer¬ 
ing  that  have  wakened  my  kinship  with  the  humanity 
of  les  mis er able s,  whom  social  stupidity  has  cast  into  the 
valley  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


A  NEW  PLAN  OF  ESCAPE 

I 

My  new  neighbor  turns  my  thoughts  into  a  different 
channel.  It  is  “Fighting”  Tom,  returned  after  several 
years  of  absence.  By  means  of  a  string  attached  to  a 
wire  we  “swing”  notes  to  each  other  at  night,  and  Tom 
startles  me  by  the  confession  that  he  was  the  author  of 
the  mysterious  note  I  had  received  soon  after  my  arrival 
in  the  penitentiary.  An  escape  was  being  planned,  he 
informs  me,  and  I  was  to  be  “let  in,”  by  his  recom¬ 
mendation.  But  one  of  the  conspirators  getting  “cold 
feet,”  the  plot  was  betrayed  to  the  Warden,  whereupon 
Tom  “sent  the  snitch  to  the  hospital.”  As  a  result,  how¬ 
ever,  he  was  kept  in  solitary  till  his  release.  In  the 
prison  he  had  become  proficient  as  a  broom-maker,  and 
it  was  his  intention  to  follow  the  trade.  There  was  noth¬ 
ing  in  the  crooked  line,  he  thought;  and  he  resolved  to 
be  honest.  But  on  the  day  of  his  discharge  he  was 
arrested  at  the  gate  by  officers  from  Illinois  on  an  old 
charge.  He  swore  vengeance  against  Assistant  Deputy 
Hopkins,  before  whom  he  had  once  accidentally  let  drop 
the  remark  that  he  would  never  return  to  Illinois,  be¬ 
cause  he  was  “wanted”  there.  He  lived  the  five  years  in 
the  Joliet  prison  in  the  sole  hope  of  “getting  square” 
with  the  man  who  had  so  meanly  betrayed  him.  Upon 
his  release,  he  returned  to  Pittsburgh,  determined  to 

395 


396  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


kill  Hopkins.  On  the  night  of  his  arrival  he  broke  into 
the  latter’s  residence,  prepared  to  avenge  his  wrongs. 
But  the  Assistant  Deputy  had  left  the  previous  day  on 
his  vacation.  Furious  at  being  baffled,  Tom  was  about 
to  set  fire  to  the  house,  when  the  light  of  his  match  fell 
upon  a  silver  trinket  on  the  bureau  of  the  bedroom.  It 
fascinated  him.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  it.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  was  seized  with  the  desire  to  examine  the  con¬ 
tents  of  the  house.  The  old  passion  was  upon  him.  He 
could  not  resist.  Hardly  conscious  of  his  actions,  he 
gathered  the  silverware  into  a  tablecloth,  and  quietly 
stole  out  of  the  house.  He  was  arrested  the  next  day, 
as  he  was  trying  to  pawn  his  booty.  An  old  offender, 
he  received  a  sentence  of  ten  years.  Since  his  arrival, 
eight  months  ago,  he  has  been  kept  in  solitary.  His 
health  is  broken;  he  has  no  hope  of  surviving  his  sen¬ 
tence.  But  if  he  is  to  die — he  swears — he  is  going  to 
take  “his  man”  along. 

Aware  of  the  determination  of  “Fighting”  Tom,  I 
realize  that  the  safety  of  the  hated  officer  is  conditioned 
by  Tom’s  lack  of  opportunity  to  carry  out  his  revenge.  I 
feel  little  sympathy  for  Hopkins,  whose  craftiness  in 
worming  out  the  secrets  of  prisoners  has  placed  him  on 
the  pay-roll  of  the  Pinkerton  agency;  but  I  exert  myself 
to  persuade  Tom  that  it  would  be  sheer  insanity  thus 
deliberately  to  put  his  head  in  the  noose.  He  is  still  a 
young  man ;  barely  thirty.  It  is  not  worth  while  sacri¬ 
ficing  his  life  for  a  sneak  of  a  guard. 

However,  Tom  remains  stubborn.  My  arguments 
seem  merely  to  rouse  his  resistance,  and  strengthen  his 
resolution.  But  closer  acquaintance  reveals  to  me  his 
exceeding  conceit  over  his  art  and  technic,  as  a  second- 
story  expert.  I  play  upon  his  vanity,  scoffing  at  the 
crudity  of  his  plans  of  revenge.  Would  it  not  be  more 
in  conformity  with  his  reputation  as  a  skilled  "gun,”  I 


A  NEW  PLAN  OF  ESCAPE 


397 


argue,  to  “do  the  job”  in  a  “smoother”  manner?  Tom 
assumes  a  skeptical  attitude,  but  by  degrees  grows  more 
interested.  Presently,  with  unexpected  enthusiasm,  he 
warms  to  the  suggestion  of  “a  break.”  Once  outside, 
well — “I’ll  get  ’im  all  right,”  he  chuckles. 


II 


The  plan  of  escape  completely  absorbs  us.  On  alter¬ 
nate  nights  we  take  turns  in  timing  the  rounds  of  the 
guards,  the  appearance  of  the  Night  Captain,  the  opening 
of  the  rotunda  door.  Numerous  details,  seemingly  in¬ 
significant,  yet  potentially  fatal,  are  to  be  mastered. 
Many  obstacles  bar  the  way  of  success,  but  time  and 
perseverance  will  surmount  them.  Tom  is  thoroughly 
engrossed  with  the  project.  I  realize  the  desperation  of 
the  undertaking,  but  the  sole  alternative  is  slow  death  in 
the  solitary.  It  is  the  last  resort. 

With  utmost  care  we  make  our  preparations.  The 
summer  is  long  past ;  the  dense  fogs  of  the  season  will 
aid  our  escape.  We  hasten  to  complete  all  details,  in 
great  nervous  tension  with  the  excitement  of  the  work. 
The  time  is  drawing  near  for  deciding  upon  a  definite 
date.  But  Tom’s  state  of  mind  fills  me  with  apprehen¬ 
sion.  He  has  become  taciturn  of  late.  Yesterday  he 
seemed  peculiarly  glum,  sullenly  refusing  to  answer  my 
signal.  Again  and  again  I  knock  on  the  wall,  calling  for 
a  reply  to  my  last  note.  Tom  remains  silent.  Occa¬ 
sionally  a  heavy  groan  issues  from  his  cell,  but  my  re¬ 
peated  signals  remain  unanswered.  In  alarm  I  stay 
awake  all  night,  in  the  hope  of  inducing  a  guard  to  in¬ 
vestigate  the  cause  of  the  groaning.  But  my  attempts 
to  speak  to  the  officers  are  ignored.  The  next  morning 
I  behold  Tom  carried  on  a  stretcher  from  his  cell,  and 


398  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


learn  with  horror  that  he  had  bled  to  death  during  the 
night. 


Ill 

The  peculiar  death  of  my  friend  preys  on  my  mind. 
Was  it  suicide  or  accident?  Tom  had  been  weakened  by 
long  confinement ;  in  some  manner  he  may  have  ruptured 
a  blood  vessel,  dying  for  lack  of  medical  aid.  It  is  hardly 
probable  that  he  would  commit  suicide  on  the  eve  of  our 
attempt.  Yet  certain  references  in  his  notes  of  late, 
ignored  at  the  time,  assume  new  significance.  He  was 
apparently  under  the  delusion  that  Hopkins  was  “after 
him.”  Once  or  twice  my  friend  had  expressed  fear  for 
his  safety.  He  might  be  poisoned,  he  hinted.  I  had 
laughed  the  matter  away,  familiar  with  the  sporadic  de¬ 
lusions  of  men  in  solitary.  Close  confinement  exerts  a 
similar  effect  upon  the  majority  of  prisoners.  Some  are 
especially  predisposed  to  auto-suggestion ;  Young  Sid 
used  to  manifest  every  symptom  of  the  diseases  he  read 
about.  Perhaps  poor  Tom’s  delusion  was  responsible  for 
his  death.  Spencer,  too,  had  committed  suicide  a  month 
before  his  release,  in  the  firm  conviction  that  the  War¬ 
den  would  not  permit  his  discharge.  It  may  be  that  in  a 
sudden  fit  of  despondency,  Tom  had  ended  his  life.  Per¬ 
haps  I  could  have  saved  my  friend:  I  did  not  realize  how 
constantly  he  brooded  over  the  danger  he  believed  him¬ 
self  threatened  with.  How  little  I  knew  of  the  terrible 
struggle  that  must  have  been  going  on  in  his  tortured 
heart!  Yet  we  were  so  intimate;  I  believed  I  understood 
his  every  feeling  and  emotion. 

The  thought  of  Tom  possesses  my  mind.  The  news 
from  the  Girl  about  Bresci’s  execution  of  the  King  of 
Italy  rouses  little  interest  in  me.  Bresci  avenged  the 


A  NEW  PLAN  OF  ESCAPE 


399 


peasants  and  the  women  and  children  shot  before  the 
palace  for  humbly  begging  bread.  He  did  well,  and  the 
agitation  resulting  from  his„  act  may  advance  the  Cause. 
But  it  will  have  no  bearing  on  my  fate.  The  last  hope 
of  escape  has  departed  with  my  poor  friend.  I  am 
doomed  to  perish  here.  And  Bresci  will  perish  in 
prison,  but  the  comrades  will  eulogize  him  and  his  act, 
and  continue  their  efforts  to  regenerate  the  world.  Yet 
A  feel  that  the  individual,  in  certain  cases,  is  of  more 
*  direct  and  immediate  consequence  than  humanity.  What 
is  the  latter  but  the  aggregate  of  individual  existences — 
and  shall  these,  the  best  of  them,  forever  be  sacrificed 
for  the  metaphysical  collectivity?  Here,  all  around  me, 
a  thousand  unfortunates  daily  suffer  the  torture  of  Cal¬ 
vary,  forsaken  by  God  and  man.  They  bleed  and 
struggle  and  suicide,  with  the  desperate  cry  for  a  little 
sunshine  and  life.  How  shall  they  be  helped?  How 
helped  amid  the  injustice  and  brutality  of  a  society  whose 
chief  monuments  are  prisons?  And  so  we  must  suffer 
and  suicide,  and  countless  others  after  us,  till  the  play  of 
social  forces  shall  transform  human  history  into  the 
history  of  true  humanity, — and  meanwhile  our  bones 
will  bleach  on  the  long,  dreary  road. 

Bereft  of  the  last  hope  of  freedom,  I  grow  indiffer¬ 
ent  to  life.  The  monotony  of  the  narrow  cell  daily  be¬ 
comes  more  loathsome.  My  whole  being  longs  for  rest. 
Rest,  no  more  to  awaken.  The  world  will  not  miss  me. 
An  atom  of  matter,  I  shall  return  to  endless  space. 
Everything  will  pursue  its  wonted  course,  but  I  shall 
know  no  more  of  the  bitter  struggle  and  strife.  My 
friends  will  sorrow,  and  yet  be  glad  my  pain  is  over, 
and  continue  on  their  way.  And  new  Brescis  will  arise, 
and  more  kings  will  fall,  and  then  all,  friend  and  enemy, 
will  go  my  way,  and  new  generations  will  be  born  and 


400  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


die,  and  humanity  and  the  world  be  whirled  into  space 
and  disappear,  and  again  the  little  stage  will  be  set,  and 
the  same  history  and  the  same  facts  will  come  and  go, 
the  playthings  of  cosmic  forces  renewing  and  transform¬ 
ing  forever. 

How  insignificant  it  all  is  in  the  eye  of  reason,  how 
small  and  puny  life  and  all  its  pain  and  travail!  .  .  . 
With  eyes  closed,  I  behold  myself  suspended  by  the 
neck  from  the  upper  bars  of  the  cell.  My  body  swings 
gently  against  the  door,  striking  it  softly,  once,  twice, 
— just  like  Pasquale,  when  he  hanged  himself  in  the 
cell  next  to  mine,  some  months  ago.  A  few  twitches, 
and  the  last  breath  is  gone.  My  face  grows  livid,  my 
body  rigid;  slowly  it  cools.  The  night  guard  passes. 
“What’s  this,  eh?”  He  rings  the  rotunda  bell.  Keys 
clang;  the  lever  is  drawn,  and  my  door  unlocked.  An 
officer  draws  a  knife  sharply  across  the  rope  at  the 
bars :  my  body  sinks  to  the  floor,  my  head  striking  against 
the  iron  bedstead.  The  doctor  kneels  at  my  side ;  I  feel 
his  hand  over  my  heart.  Now  he  rises. 

“Good  job,  Doc?”  I  recognize  the  Deputy’s  voice. 

The  physician  nods. 

“Damn  glad  of  it,”  Hopkins  sneers. 

The  Warden  enters,  a  grin  on  his  parchment  face. 
With  an  oath  I  spring  to  my  feet.  In  terror  the  officers 
rush  from  the  cell.  “Ah,  I  fooled  you,  didn’t  I,  you 
murderers !” 

•  ••••••• 

The  thought  of  the  enemy’s  triumph  fans  the  embers 
of  life.  It  engenders  defiance,  and  strengthens  stubborn 
resistance. 


CHAPTER  XL 


DONE  TO  DEATH 

I 

In  my  utter  isolation,  the  world  outside  appears  like  a 
faint  memory,  unreal  and  dim.  The  deprivation  of 
newspapers  has  entirely  severed  me  from  the  living. 
Letters  from  my  comrades  have  become  rare  and  irregu¬ 
lar;  they  sound  strangely  cold  and  impersonal.  The  life 
of  the  prison  is  also  receding;  no  communication  reaches 
me  from  my  friends.  “Pious”  John,  the  rangeman,  is 
unsympathetic;  he  still  bears  me  ill  will  from  the  days 
of  the  jail.  Only  young  Russell  still  remembers  me.  I 
tremble  for  the  reckless  boy  as  I  hear  his  low  cough, 
apprising  me  of  the  “stiff”  he  unerringly  shoots  between 
the  bars,  while  the  double  file  of  prisoners  marches 
past  my  door.  He  looks  pale  and  haggard,  the  old 
buoyant  step  now  languid  and  heavy.  A  tone  of  appre¬ 
hension  pervades  his  notes.  He  is  constantly  harassed 
by  the  officers,  he  writes;  his  task  has  been  increased; 
he  is  nervous  and  weak,  and  his  health  is  declining.  In 
the  broken  sentences,  I  sense  some  vague  misgiving,  as 
of  impending  calamity. 

With  intense  thankfulness  I  think  of  Russell.  Again  I 
live  through  the  hopes  and  fears  that  drew  us  into  closer 
friendship,  the  days  of  terrible  anxiety  incident  to  the 
tunnel  project.  My  heart  goes  out  to  the  faithful  boy, 
whose  loyalty  and  discretion  have  so  much  aided  the 

401 


402  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


safety  of  my  comrades.  A  strange  longing  for  his  com¬ 
panionship  possesses  me.  In  the  gnawing  loneliness,  his 
face  floats  before  me,  casting  the  spell  of  a  friendly 
presence,  his  strong  features  softened  by  sorrow,  his 
eyes  grown  large  with  the  same  sweet  sadness  of  “Little 
Felipe.”  A  peculiar  tenderness  steals  into  my  thoughts 
of  the  boy;  I  look  forward  eagerly  to  his  notes.  Im¬ 
patiently  I  scan  the  faces  in  the  passing  line,  wistful  for 
the  sight  of  the  youth,  and  my  heart  beats  faster  at 
his  fleeting  smile. 

How  sorrowful  he  looks!  Now  he  is  gone.  The 
hours  are  weary  with  silence  and  solitude.  Listlessly  I 
turn  the  pages  of  my  library  book.  If  only  I  had  the 
birds!  I  should  find  solace  in  their  thoughtful  eyes: 
Dick  and  Sis  would  understand  and  feel  with  me.  But 
my  poor  little  friends  have  disappeared;  only  Russell  re¬ 
mains.  My  only  friend!  I  shall  not  see  him  when  he 
returns  to  the  cell  at  noon :  the  line  passes  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hall.  But  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  men 
are  again  unlocked  for  work,  I  shall  look  into  his  eyes 
for  a  happy  moment,  and  perhaps  the  dear  boy  will 
have  a  message  for  me.  He  is  so  tender-hearted:  his 
correspondence  is  full  of  sympathy  and  encouragement, 
and  he  strives  to  cheer  me  with  the  good  news :  another 
day  is  gone,  his  sentence  is  nearing  its  end;  he  will  at 
once  secure  a  position,  and  save  every  penny  to  aid  in 
my  release.  Tacitly  I  concur  in  his  ardent  hope, — it 
would  break  his  heart  to  be  disillusioned. 

II 

The  passing  weeks  and  months  bring  no  break  in  the 
dreary  monotony.  The  call  of  the  robin  on  the  river 
bank  rouses  no  echo  in  my  heart.  No  sign  of  awaken¬ 
ing  spring  brightens  the  constant  semi-darkness  of  the 


DONE  TO  DEATH 


403 


solitary.  The  dampness  of  the  cell  is  piercing  my  bones ; 
every  movement  racks  my  body  with  pain.  My  eyes 
are  tortured  with  the  eternal  white  of  the  walls.  Sombre 
shadows  brood  around  me. 

I  long  for  a  bit  of  sunshine.  I  wait  patiently  at  the 
door :  perhaps  it  is  clear  to-day.  My  cell  faces  west ;  may 
be  the  setting  sun  will  steal  a  glance  upon  me.  For 
hours  I  stand  with  naked  breast  close  to  the  bars :  I  must 
not  miss  a  friendly  ray;  it  may  suddenly  peep  into  the 
cell,  and  turn  away  from  me,  unseen  in  the  gloom.  Now 
a  bright  beam  plays  on  my  neck  and  shoulders,  and  I 
press  closer  to  the  door  to  welcome  the  dear  stranger. 
He  caresses  me  with  soft  touch, — perhaps  it  is  the  soul 
of  little  Dick  pouring  out  his  tender  greeting  in  this  song 
of  light, — or  may  be  the  astral  aura  of  my  beloved  Uncle 
Maxim,  bringing  warmth  and  hope.  Sweet  conceit  of 
Oriental  thought,  barren  of  joy  in  life.  .  .  .  The  sun 
is  fading.  It  feels  chilly  in  the  twilight, — and  now  the 
solitary  is  once  more  bleak  and  cold. 


As  his  release  approaches,  the  tone  of  native  confi¬ 
dence  becomes  more  assertive  in  Russell’s  letter.  The 
boy  is  jubilant  and  full  of  vitality:  within  three  months 
he  will  breathe  the  air  of  freedom.  A  note  of  sadness  at 
leaving  me  behind  permeates  his  communications,  but 
he  is  enthusiastic  over  his  project  of  aiding  me  to  liberty. 

Eagerly  every  day  I  anticipate  his  mute  greeting,  as 
he  passes  in  the  line.  This  morning  I  saw  him  hold  up 
two  fingers,  the  third  crooked,  in  sign  of  the  remaining 
“two  and  a  stump.”  A  joyous  light  is  in  his  eyes,  his 
step  firmer,  more  elastic. 

But  in  the  afternoon  he  is  missing  from  the  line. 
With  sudden  apprehension  I  wonder  at  his  absence. 
Could  I  have  overlooked  him  in  the  closely  walking 


404  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


ranks?  It  is  barely  possible.  Perhaps  he  has  remained 
in  the  cell,  not  feeling  well.  It  may  be  nothing  serious; 
he  will  surely  be  in  line  to-morrow. 

For  three  days,  every  morning  and  afternoon,  I 
anxiously  scrutinize  the  faces  of  the  passing  men;  but 
Russell  is  not  among  them.  His  absence  torments  me 
with  a  thousand  fears.  May  be  the  Warden  has  renewed 
his  inquisition  of  the  boy — perhaps  he  got  into  a  fight  in 
the  shop — in  the  dungeon  now — he’ll  lose  his  commuta¬ 
tion  time.  .  .  .  Unable  to  bear  the  suspense,  I  am  about 
to  appeal  to  the  Chaplain,  when  a  friendly  runner  sur¬ 
reptitiously  hands  me  a  note. 

With  difficulty  I  recognize  my  friend’s  bold  hand¬ 
writing  in  the  uneven,  nervous  scrawl.  Russell  is  in  the 
hospital !  At  work  in  the  shop,  he  writes,  he  had  suffered 
a  chill.  The  doctor  committed  him  to  the  ward  for 
observation,  but  the  officers  and  the  convict  nurses 
accuse  him  of  shamming  to  evade  work.  They  threaten 
to  have  him  returned  to  the  shop,  and  he  implores  me 
to  have  the  Chaplain  intercede  for  him.  He  feels  weak 
and  feverish,  and  the  thought  of  being  left  alone  in  the 
cell  in  his  present  condition  fills  him  with  horror. 

I  send  an  urgent  request  to  see  the  Chaplain.  But 
the  guard  informs  me  that  Mr.  Milligan  is  absent;  he 
is  not  expected  at  the  office  till  the  following  week.  I 
prevail  upon  the  kindly  Mitchell,  recently  transferred 
to  the  South  Block,  to  deliver  a  note  to  the  Warden,  in 
which  I  appeal  on  behalf  of  Russell.  But  several  days 
pass,  and  still  no  reply  from  Captain  Wright.  Finally 
I  pretend  severe  pains  in  the  bowels,  to  afford  Frank, 
the  doctor’s  assistant,  an  opportunity  to  pause  at  my  cell. 
As  the  “medicine  boy”  pours  the  prescribed  pint  of 
“horse  salts”  through  the  funnel  inserted  between  the 
bars,  I  hastily  inquire: 

“Is  Russell  still  in  the  ward,  Frank?  How  is  he?” 


DONE  TO  DEATH 


405 


“What  Russell?”  he  asks  indifferently. 

“Russell  Schroyer,  put  four  days  ago  under  observa¬ 
tion.” 

“Oh,  that  poor  kid !  Why,  he  is  paralyzed.” 

For  an  instant  I  am  speechless  with  terror.  No,  it 
cannot  be.  Some  mistake. 

“Frank,  I  mean  young  Schroyer,  from  the  construc¬ 
tion  shop.  He’s  Number  2608.” 

“Your  friend  Russell ;  I  know  who  you  mean.  I’m 
sorry  for  the  boy.  He  is  paralyzed,  all  right.” 

“But  .  .  .  No,  it  can’t  be!  Why,  Frank,  it  was  just 
a  chill  and  a  little  weakness.” 

“Look  here,  Aleck.  I  know  you’re  square,  and  you 
can  keep  a  secret  all  right.  I’ll  tell  you  something  if  you 
won’t  give  me  away.” 

“Yes,  yes,  Frank.  What  is  it?” 

“Sh-sh.  You  know  Flem,  the  night  nurse?  Doing 
a  five  spot  for  murder.  His  father  and  the  Warden  are 
old  cronies.  That’s  how  he  got  to  be  nurse ;  don’t  know 
a  damn  thing  about  it,  an’  careless  as  hell.  Always 
makes  mistakes.  Well,  Doc  ordered  an  injection  for 
Russell.  Now  don’t  ever  say  I  told  you.  Flem  got  the 
wrong  bottle;  gave  the  poor  boy  some  acid  in  the  injec¬ 
tion.  Paralyzed  the  kid;  he  did,  the  damn  murderer.” 


I  pass  the  night  in  anguish,  clutching  desperately  at 
the  faint  hope  that  it  cannot  be — some  mistake — perhaps 
Frank  has  exaggerated.  But  in  the  morning  the  “med¬ 
icine  boy”  confirms  my  worst  fears :  the  doctor  has  said 
the  boy  will  die.  Russell  does  not  realize  the  situation : 
there  is  something  wrong  with  his  legs,  the  poor  boy 
writes;  he  is  unable  to  move  them,  and  suffers  great 
pain.  It  can’t  be  fever,  he  thinks ;  but  the  physician  will 
pot  tell  him  what  is  the  matter.  .  .  . 


40 6  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


The  kindly  Frank  is  sympathetic;  every  day  he  passes 
notes  between  us,  and  I  try  to  encourage  Russell.  He 
will  improve,  I  assure  him ;  his  time  is  short,  and  fresh 
air  and  liberty  will  soon  restore  him.  My  words  seem 
to  soothe  my  friend,  and  he  grows  more  cheerful,  when 
unexpectedly  he  learns  the  truth  from  the  wrangling 
nurses.  His  notes  grow  piteous  with  misery.  Tears 
fill  my  eyes  as  I  read  his  despairing  cry,  “Oh,  Aleck,  I 
am  so  young.  I  don’t  want  to  die.”  He  implores  me  to 
visit  him;  if  I  could  only  come  to  nurse  him,  he  is  sure 
he  would  improve.  He  distrusts  the  convict  attendants 
who  harry  and  banter  the  country  lad;  their  heartless 
abuse  is  irritating  the  sick  boy  beyond  patience.  Ex¬ 
asperated  by  the  taunts  of  the  night  nurse,  Russell  yes¬ 
terday  threw  a  saucer  at  him.  He  was  reported  to  the 
doctor,  who  threatened  to  send  the  paralyzed  youth  to 
the  dungeon.  Plagued  and  tormented,  in  great  suffering, 
Russell  grows  bitter  and  complaining.  The  nurses  and 
officers  are  persecuting  him,  he  writes ;  they  will  soon  do 
him  to  death,  if  I  will  not  come  to  his  rescue.  If  he 
could  go  to  an  outside  hospital,  he  is  sure  to  recover. 

Every  evening  Frank  brings  sadder  news:  Russell 
is  feeling  worse ;  he  is  so  nervous,  the  doctor  has 
ordered  the  nurses  to  wear  slippers;  the  doors  in  the 
ward  have  been  lined  with  cotton,  to  deaden  the  noise  of 
slamming;  but  even  the  sight  of  a  moving  figure  throws 
Russell  into  convulsions.  There  is  no  hope,  Frank  re¬ 
ports;  decomposition  has  already  set  in.  The  boy  is  in 
terrible  agony;  he  is  constantly  crying  with  pain,  and 
calling  for  me. 

Distraught  with  anxiety  and  yearning  to  see  my  sick 
friend,  I  resolve  upon  a  way  to  visit  the  hospital.  In 
the  morning,  as  the  guard  hands  me  the  bread  ration  and 
shuts  my  cell,  I  slip  my  hand  between  the  sill  and  door. 
With  an  involuntary  cry  I  withdraw  my  maimed  and 


DONE  TO  DEATH 


407 


bleeding  fingers.  The  overseer  conducts  me  to  the  dis¬ 
pensary.  By  tacit  permission  of  the  friendly  “medicine 
boy”  I  pass  to  the  second  floor,  where  the  wards  are 
located,  and  quickly  steal  to  Russell’s  bedside.  The  look 
of  mute  joy  on  the  agonized  face  subdues  the  excruciat¬ 
ing  pain  in  my  hand.  “Oh,  dear  Aleck,”  he  whispers, 
“I’m  so  glad  they  let  you  come.  I’ll  get  well  if  you’ll 
nurse  me.”  The  shadow  of  death  is  in  his  eyes;  the 
body  exudes  decomposition.  Bereft  of  speech,  I  gently 
press  his  white,  emaciated  hand.  The  weary  eyes  close, 
and  the  boy  falls  into  slumber.  Silently  I  touch  his  dry 
lips,  and  steal  away. 

In  the  afternoon  I  appeal  to  the  Warden  to  permit 
me  to  nurse  my  friend.  It  is  the  boy’s  dying  wish;  it 
will  ease  his  last  hours.  The  Captain  refers  me  to  the 
Inspectors,  but  Mr.  Reed  informs  me  that  it  would  be 
subversive  of  discipline  to  grant  my  request.  Thereupon 
I  ask  permission  to  arrange  a  collection  among  the  pris¬ 
oners:  Russell  firmly  believes  that  he  would  improve  in 
an  outside  hospital,  and  the  Pardon  Board  might  grant 
the  petition.  Friendless  prisoners  are  often  allowed  to 
circulate  subscription  lists  among  the  inmates,  and  two 
years  previously  I  had  collected  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
three  dollars  for  the  pardon  of  a  lifetimer.  But  the 
Warden  curtly  refuses  my  plea,  remarking  that  it  is 
dangerous  to  permit  me  to  associate  with  the  men.  I 
suggest  the  Chaplain  for  the  mission,  or  some  prisoner 
selected  by  the  authorities.  But  this  offer  is  also  vetoed, 
the  Warden  berating  me  for  having  taken  advantage  of 
my  presence  in  the  dispensary  to  see  Russell  clandes¬ 
tinely,  and  threatening  to  punish  me  with  the  dungeon. 
I  plead  with  him  for  permission  to  visit  the  sick  boy  who 
is  hungry  for  a  friendly  presence,  and  constantly  call¬ 
ing  for  me.  Apparently  touched  by  my  emotion,  the 
Captain  yields.  He  will  permit  me  to  visit  Russell,  he 


408  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


informs  me,  on  condition  that  a  guard  be  present  at  the 
meeting.  For  a  moment  I  hesitate.  The  desire  to  see 
my  friend  struggles  against  the  fear  of  irritating  him 
by  the  sight  of  the  hated  uniform;  but  I  cannot  expose 
the  dying  youth  to  this  indignity  and  pain.  Angered  by 
my  refusal,  perhaps  disappointed  in  the  hope  of  learning 
the  secret  of  the  tunnel  from  the  visit,  the  Warden  for¬ 
bids  me  hereafter  to  enter  the  hospital. 

Late  at  night  Frank  appears  at  my  cell.  He  looks 
very  grave,  as  he  whispers : 

“Aleck,  you  must  bear  up.” 

“Russell—?” 

“Yes,  Aleck.” 

“Worse?  Tell  me,  Frank.” 

“He  is  dead.  Bear  up,  Aleck.  His  last  thought  was 
of  you.  He  was  unconscious  all  afternoon,  but  just  be¬ 
fore  the  end — it  was  9.33 — he  sat  up  in  bed  so  suddenly, 
he  frightened  me.  His  arm  shot  out,  and  he  cried, 
‘Good  bye,  Aleck.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XLI 


THE  SHOCK  AT  BUFFALO 

I 

July  io,  1901. 

Dear  Girl: 

This  is  from  the  hospital,  sub  rosa.  Just  out  of  the  strait- 
jacket,  after  eight  days. 

For  over  a  year  I  was  in  the  strictest  solitary;  for  a  long 
time  mail  and  reading  matter  were  denied  me.  I  have  no  words 
to  describe  the  horror  of  the  last  months.  ...  I  have  passed 
through  a  great  crisis.  Two  of  my  best  friends  died  in  a  fright¬ 
ful  manner.  The  death  of  Russell,  especially,  affected  me.  He 
was  very  young,  and  my  dearest  and  most  devoted  friend,  and  he 
died  a  terrible  death.  The  doctor  charged  the  boy  with  sham¬ 
ming,  but  now  he  says  it  was  spinal  meningitis.  I  cannot  tell 
you  the  awful  truth, — it  was  nothing  short  of  murder,  and  my 
poor  friend  rotted  away  by  inches.  When  he  died  they  found  his 
back  one  mass  of  bedsores.  If  you  could  read  the  pitiful  letters 
he  wrote,  begging  to  see  me,  and  to  be  nursed  by  me !  But  the 
Warden  wouldn’t  permit  it.  In  some  manner  his  agony  seemed 
to  affect  me,  and  I  began  to  experience  the  pains  and  symptoms 
that  Russell  described  in  his  notes.  I  knew  it  was  my  sick 
fancy;  I  strove  against  it,  but  presently  my  legs  showed  signs 
of  paralysis,  and  I  suffered  excruciating  pain  in  the  spinal 
column,  just  like  Russell.  I  was  afraid  that  I  would  be  done 
to  death  like  my  poor  friend.  I  grew  suspicious  of  every  guard, 
and  would  barely  touch  the  food,  for  fear  of  its  being  poisoned. 
My  “head  was  workin’,”  they  said.  And  all  the  time  I  knew  it 
was  my  diseased  imagination,  and  I  was  in  terror  of  going  mad. 
.  .  .  I  tried  so  hard  to  fight  it,  but  it  would  always  creep  up,  and 
get  hold  of  me  stronger  and  stronger.  Another  week  of  solitary 
would  have  killed  me. 

I  was  on  the  verge  of  suicide.  I  demanded  to  be  relieved 

409 


410  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


from  the  cell,  and  the  Warden  ordered  me  punished.  I  was  put 
in  the  strait-jacket.  They  bound  my  body  in  canvas,  strapped 
my  arms  to  the  bed,  and  chained  my  feet  to  the  posts.  I  was 
kept  that  way  eight  days,  unable  to  move,  rotting  in  my  own 
excrement.  Released  prisoners  called  the  attention  of  our  new 
Inspector  to  my  case.  He  refused  to  believe  that  such  things 
were  being  done  in  the  penitentiary.  Reports  spread  that  I  was 
going  blind  and  insane.  Then  the  Inspector  visited  the  hospital 
and  had  me  released  from  the  jacket. 

I  am  in  pretty  bad  shape,  but  they  put  me  in  the  general 
ward  now,  and  I  am  glad  of  the  chance  to  send  you  this  note. 

Sasha. 


II 

Direct  to  Box  A  7, 
Allegheny  City,  Pa. 

July  25th,  1901. 

Dear  Sonya: 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  I  am  to  be  allowed  to  write 
to  you  again.  My  privileges  have  been  restored  by  our  new 
Inspector,  a  very  kindly  man.  He  has  relieved  me  from  the 
cell,  and  now  I  am  again  on  the  range.  The  Inspector  requested 
me  to  deny  to  my  friends  the  reports  which  have  recently 
appeared  in  the  papers  concerning  my  condition.  I  have  not 
been  well  of  late,  but  now  I  hope  to  improve.  My  eyes  are  very 
poor.  The  Inspector  has  given  me  permission  to  have  a  special¬ 
ist  examine  them.  Please  arrange  for  it  through  our  local  com¬ 
rades. 

There  is  another  piece  of  very  good  news,  dear  friend.  A 
new  commutation  law  has  been  passed,  which  reduces  my 
sentence  by  2^4  years.  It  still  leaves  me  a  long  time,  of  course; 
almost  4  years  here,  and  another  year  to  the  workhouse.  How¬ 
ever,  it  is  a  considerable  gain,  and  if  I  should  not  get  into  soli¬ 
tary  again,  I  may — I  am  almost  afraid  to  utter  the  thought — 
I  may  live  to  come  out.  I  feel  as  if  I  am  being  resurrected. 

The  new  law  benefits  the  short-timers  proportionately  much 
more  than  the  men  with  longer  sentences.  Only  the  poor  lifers 
do  not  share  in  it.  We  were  very  anxious  for  a  while,  as  there 
were  many  rumors  that  the  law  would  be  declared  unconsti¬ 
tutional.  Fortunately,  the  attempt  to  nullify  its  benefits  proved 


THE  SHOCK  AT  BUFFALO 


411 

ineffectual.  Think  of  men  who  will  see  something  unconstitu¬ 
tional  in  allowing  the  prisoners  a  little  more  good  time  than  the 
commutation  statute  of  40  years  ago.  As  if  a  little  kindness  to 
the  unfortunates — really  justice — is  incompatible  with  the  spirit 
of  Jefferson!  We  were  greatly  worried  over  the  fate  of  this 
statute,  but  at  last  the  first  batch  has  been  released,  and  there 
is  much  rejoicing  over  it. 

There  is  a  peculiar  history  about  this  new  law,  which  may 
interest  you ;  it  sheds  a  significant  side  light.  It  was  especially 
designed  for  the  benefit  of  a  high  Federal  officer  who  was  recently 
convicted  of  aiding  two  wealthy  Philadelphia  tobacco  manufac¬ 
turers  to  defraud  the  government  of  a  few  millions,  by  using 
counterfeit  tax  stamps.  Their  influence  secured  the  introduction 
of  the  commutation  bill  and  its  hasty  passage.  The  law  would 
have  cut  their  sentences  almost  in  two,  but  certain  newspapers 
seem  to  have  taken  offence  at  having  been  kept  in  ignorance 
of  the  “deal,”  and  protests  began  to  be  voiced.  The  matter 
finally  came  up  before  the  Attorney  General  of  the  United 
States,  who  decided  that  the  men  in  whose  special  interest  the 
law  was  engineered,  could  not  benefit  by  it,  because  a  State 
law  does  not  affect  U.  S.  prisoners,  the  latter  being  subject  to 
the  Federal  commutation  act.  Imagine  the  discomfiture  of  the 
politicians !  An  attempt  was  even  made  to  suspend  the  opera¬ 
tion  of  the  statute.  Fortunately  it  failed,  and  now  the  “common” 
State  prisoners,  who  were  not  at  all  meant  to  profit,  are  being 
released.  The  legislature  has  unwittingly  given  some  unfortu¬ 
nates  here  much  happiness. 

I  was  interrupted  in  this  writing  by  being  called  out  for  a 
visit.  I  could  hardly  credit  it :  the  first  comrade  I  have  been 
allowed  to  see  in  nine  years !  It  was  Harry  Gordon,  and  I 
was  so  overcome  by  the  sight  of  the  dear  friend,  I  could  barely 
speak.  He  must  have  prevailed  upon  the  new  Inspector  to  issue 
a  permit.  The  latter  is  now  Acting  Warden,  owing  to  the 
serious  illness  of  Captain  Wright.  Perhaps  he  will  allow  me  to 
see  my  sister.  Will  you  kindly  communicate  with  her  at  once? 
Meantime  I  shall  try  to  secure  a  pass.  With  renewed  hope,  and 
always  with  green  memory  of  you, 


Alex. 


412  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

III 


Sub  Rosa, 

Dec.  20,  1901. 

Dearest  Girl: 

I  know  how  your  visit  and  my  strange  behavior  have  affected 
you.  .  .  .  The  sight  of  your  face  after  all  these  years  com¬ 
pletely  unnerved  me.  I  could  not  think,  I  could  not  speak.  It 
was  as  if  all  my  dreams  of  freedom,  the  whole  world  of  the 
living,  were  concentrated  in  the  shiny  little  trinket  that  was 
dangling  from  your  watch  chain,  ...  I  couldn’t  take  my 
eyes  off  it,  I  couldn’t  keep  my  hand  from  playing  with  it.  It 
absorbed  my  whole  being.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  I  felt  how 
nervous  you  were  at  my  silence,  and  I  couldn’t  utter  a  word. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  not  to  have  seen 
each  other  under  the  present  conditions.  It  was  lucky  they  did 
not  recognize  you:  they  took  you  for  my  “sister,”  though  I 
believe  your  identity  was  suspected  after  you  had  left.  You 
would  surely  not  have  been  permitted  the  visit,  had  the  old 
Warden  been  here.  He  was  ill  at  the  time.  He  never  got 
over  the  shock  of  the  tunnel,  and  finally  he  has  been  per¬ 
suaded  by  the  prison  physician  (who  has  secret  aspirations 
to  the  Wardenship)  that  the  anxieties  of  his  position  are  a 
menace  to  his  advanced  age.  Considerable  dissatisfaction  has 
also  developed  of  late  against  the  Warden  among  the  Inspectors. 
Well,  he  has  resigned  at  last,  thank  goodness !  The  prisoners 
have  been  praying  for  it  for  years,  and  some  of  the  boys  on 
the  range  celebrated  the  event  by  getting  drunk  on  wood  alcohol. 
The  new  Warden  has  just  assumed  charge,  and  we  hope  for 
improvement.  He  is  a  physician  by  profession,  with  the  title 
of  Major  in  the  Pennsylvania  militia. 

It  was  entirely  uncalled  for  on  the  part  of  the  officious 
friend,  whoever  he  may  have  been,  to  cause  you  unnecessary 
worry  over  my  health,  and  my  renewed  persecution.  You 
remember  that  in  July  the  new  Inspector  released  me  from  the 
strait- jacket  and  assigned  me  to  work  on  the  range.  But  I 
was  locked  up  again  in  October,  after  the  McKinley  incident. 
The  President  of  the  Board  of  Inspectors  was  at  the  time  in 
New  York.  He  inquired  by  wire  what  I  was  doing.  Upon 
being  informed  that  I  was  working  on  the  range,  he  ordered 
me  into  solitary.  The  new  Warden,  on  assuming  office,  sent 
for  me.  “They  give  you  a  bad  reputation,”  he  said;  “but  I 


THE  SHOCK  AT  BUFFALO 


413 


will  let  you  out  of  the  cell  if  you’ll  promise  to  do  what  is  right 
by  me.”  He  spoke  brusquely,  in  the  manner  of  a  man  closing 
a  business  deal,  with  the  power  of  dictating  terms.  He  reminded 
me  of  Bismarck  at  Versailles.  Yet  he  did  not  seem  unkind; 
the  thought  of  escape  was  probably  in  his  mind.  But  the  new 
law  has  germinated  the  hope  of  survival;  my  weakened  condi¬ 
tion  and  the  unexpected  shortening  of  my  sentence  have  at  last 
decided  me  to  abandon  the  idea  of  escape.  I  therefore  replied 
to  the  Warden :  “I  will  do  what  is  right  by  you,  if  you  treat 
me  right.”  Thereupon  he  assigned  me  to  work  on  the  range. 
It  is  almost  like  liberty  to  have  the  freedom  of  the  cell-house 
after  the  close  solitary. 

And  you,  dear  friend?  In  your  letters  I  feel  how  terribly 
torn  you  are  by  the  events  of  the  recent  months.  I  lived  in 
great  fear  for  your  safety,  and  I  can  barely  credit  the  good 
news  that  you  are  at  liberty.  It  seems  almost  a  miracle. 

I  followed  the  newspapers  with  great  anxiety.  The  whole 
country  seemed  to  be  swept  with  the  fury  of  revenge.  To  a 
considerable  extent  the  press  fanned  the  fires  of  persecution. 
Here  in  the  prison  very  little  sincere  grief  was  manifested.  Out 
of  hearing  of  the  guards,  the  men  passed  very  uncomplimentary 
remarks  about  the  dead  president.  The  average  prisoner  cor¬ 
responds  to  the  average  citizen — their  patriotism  is  very  passive, 
except  when  stimulated  by  personal  interest,  or  artificially 
excited.  But  if  the  press  mirrored  the  sentiment  of  the  people, 
the  Nation  must  have  suddenly  relapsed  into  cannibalism.  There 
were  moments  when  I  was  in  mortal  dread  for  your  very  life, 
and  for  the  safety  of  the  other  arrested  comrades.  In  previous 
letters  you  hinted  that  it  was  official  rivalry  and  jealousy,  and 
your  absence  from  New  York,  to  which  you  owe  your  release. 
You  may  be  right;  yet  I  believe  that  your  attitude  of  proud  self- 
respect  and  your  admirable  self-control  contributed  much  to  the 
result.  You  were  splendid,  dear;  and  I  was  especially  moved  by 
your  remark  that  you  would  faithfully  nurse  the  wounded  man, 
if  he  required  your  services,  but  that  the  poor  boy,  condemned 
and  deserted  by  all,  needed  and  deserved  your  sympathy  and  aid 
more  than  the  president.  More  strikingly  than  your  letters,  that 
remark  discovered  to  me  the  great  change  wrought  in  us  by  the 
ripening  years.  Yes,  in  us,  in  both,  for  my  heart  echoed  your 
beautiful  sentiment.  How  impossible  such  a  thought  would 
have  been  to  us  in  the  days  of  a  decade  ago !  We  should  have 


414  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


considered  it  treason  to  the  spirit  of  revolution;  it  would  have 
outraged  all  our  traditions  even  to  admit  the  humanity  of  an 
official  representative  of  capitalism.  Is  it  not  very  significant 
that  we  two — you  living  in  the  very  heart  of  Anarchist  thought 
and  activity,  and  I  in  the  atmosphere  of  absolute  suppression  and 
solitude — should  have  arrived  at  the  same  evolutionary  point 
after  a  decade  of  divergent  paths? 

You  have  alluded  in  a  recent  letter  to  the  ennobling  and 
broadening  influence  of  sorrow.  Yet  not  upon  every  one  does 
it  exert  a  similar  effect.  Some  natures  grow  embittered,  and 
shrink  with  the  poison  of  misery.  I  often  wonder  at  my  lack 
of  bitterness  and  enmity,  even  against  the  old  Warden — and 
surely  I  have  good  cause  to  hate  him.  Is  it  because  of  greater 
maturity?  I  rather  think  it  is  temperamentally  conditioned.  The 
love  of  the  people,  the  hatred  of  oppression  of  our  younger  days, 
vital  as  these  sentiments  were  with  us,  were  mental  rather  than 
emotional.  Fortunately  so,  I  think.  For  those  like  Fedya  and 
Lewis  and  Pauline,  and  numerous  others,  soon  have  their  emo¬ 
tionally  inflated  idealism  punctured  on  the  thorny  path  of  the 
social  protestant.  Only  aspirations  that  spontaneously  leap  from 
the  depths  of  our  soul  persist  in  the  face  of  antagonistic  forces. 
The  revolutionist  is  born.  Beneath  our  love  and  hatred  of 
former  days  lay  inherent  rebellion,  and  the  passionate  desire  for 
liberty  and  life. 

In  the  long  years  of  isolation  I  have  looked  deeply  into  my 
heart.  With  open  mind  and  sincere  purpose,  I  have  revised 
every  emotion  and  every  thought.  Away  from  my  former 
atmosphere  and  the  disturbing  influence  of  the  world’s  turmoil, 
I  have  divested  myself  of  all  traditions  and  accepted  beliefs.  I 
have  studied  the  sciences  and  the  humanities,  contemplated  life, 
and  pondered  over  human  destiny.  For  weeks  and  months  I 
would  be  absorbed  in  the  domain  of  “pure  reason,”  or  discuss 
with  Leibnitz  the  question  of  free  will,  and  seek  to  penetrate, 
beyond  Spencer,  into  the  Unknowable.  Political  science  and 
economics,  law  and  criminology — I  studied  them  with  un¬ 
prejudiced  mind,  and  sought  to  slacken  my  soul’s  thirst  by  delving 
deeply  into  religion  and  theology,  seeking  the  “Key  to  Life” 
at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Eddy,  expectantly  listening  for  the  voice  of 
the  disembodied,  studying  Koreshanity  and  Theosophy,  absorb¬ 
ing  the  prana  of  knowledge  and  power,  and  concentrating  upon 
the  wisdom  of  the  Yogi.  And  after  years  of  contemplation  and 


'  THE  SHOCK  AT  BUFFALO 


415 


study,  chastened  by  much  snrrOw  and  suffering,  I  arise  from  the 
broken  fetters  of  the  world’s  folly  and  delusions,  to  behold  the 
threshold  of  a  new  life  of  liberty  and  equality.  My  youth’s  ideal 
of  a  free  humanity  in  the  vague  future  has  become  clarified 
and  crystallized  into  the  living  truth  of  Anarchy,  as  the  sustain¬ 
ing  elemental  force  of  my  every-day  existence. 

Often  I  have  wondered  in  the  years  gone  by,  was  not  wisdom 
dear  at  the  price  of  enthusiasm?  At  30  one  is  not  so  reckless, 
not  so  fanatical  and  one-sided  as  at  20.  With  maturity  we  become 
more  universal;  but  life  is  a  Shylock  that  cannot  be  cheated 
of  his  due.  For  every  lesson  it  teaches'  us,  we  have  a  wound 
or  a  scar  to  show.  We  grow  broader;  but  too  often  the  heart 
contracts  as  the  mind  expands,  and  the  fires  are  burning  down 
while  we  are  learning.  At  such  moments  my  mind  would  revert 
to  the  days  when  the  momentarily  expected  approach  of  the 
Social  Revolution  absorbed  our  exclusive  interest.  The  raging 
present  and  its  conflicting  currents  passed  us  by,  while  our  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  the  Dawn,  in  thrilling  expectancy  of  the  sun- 
rise.  Life  and  its  manifold  expressions  were  vexatious  to  the 
spirit  of  revolt;  and  poetry,  literature,  and  art  were  scorned 
as  hindrances  to  progress,  unless  they  sounded  the  tocsin  of 
immediate  revolution.  Humanity  was  sharply  divided  in  two 
i  warring  camps, — the  noble  People,  the  producers,  who  yearned 
/  for  the  light  of  the  new  gospel,  and  the  hated  oppressors,  the 
,  exploiters,  who  craftily  strove  to  obscure  the  rising  day  that  was 
/  to  give  back  to  man  his  heritage.  If  only  “the  good  People” 
were  given  an  opportunity  to  hear  the  great  truth,  how  joyfully 
they  would  embrace  Anarchy  and  walk  in  triumph  into  the  prom¬ 
ised  land ! 

The  splendid  naivety  of  the  days  that  resented  as  a  personal 
reflection  the  least  misgiving  of  the  future;  the  enthusiasm  that 
discounted  the  power  of  inherent  prejudice  and  predilection! 
Magnificent  was  the  day  of  hearts  on  fire  with  the  hatred  of 
oppression  and  the  love  of  liberty!  Woe  indeed  to  the  man  or  , 
the  people  whose  soul  never  warmed  with  the  spark  of  Prome¬ 
theus, — for  it  is  youth  that  has  climbed  the  heights.  .  .  .  But 
•^"maturity  has  clarified  the  way,  and  the  stupendous  task  of 
>  human  regeneration  will  be  accomplished  only  by  the  purified 
^  vision  of  hearts  that  grow  not  cold. 

And  you,  my  dear  friend,  with  the  deeper  insight  of  time, 
you  have  yet  happily  kept  your  heart  young.  I  have  rejoiced 


416  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


at  it  in  your  letters  of  recent  years,  and  it  is  especially  evident 
from  the  sentiments  you  have  expressed  regarding  the  happen¬ 
ing  at  Buffalo.  I  share  your  view  entirely;  for  that  very 
reason,  it  is  the  more  distressing  to  disagree  with  you  in  one 
very  important  particular :  the  value  of  Leon’s  act.  I  know 
the  terrible  ordeal  you  have  passed  through,  the  fiendish  perse¬ 
cution  to  which  you  have  been  subjected.  Worse  than  all  must 
have  been  to  you  the  general  lack  of  understanding  for  such 
phenomena;  and,  sadder  yet,  the  despicable  attitude  of  some 
would-be  radicals  in  denouncing  the  man  and  his  act.  But 
I  am  confident  you  will  not  mistake  my  expressed  disagree¬ 
ment  for  condemnation. 

We  need  not  discuss  the  phase  of  the  Attentat  which  mani¬ 
fested  the  rebellion  of  a  tortured  soul,  the  individual  protest 
against  social  wrong.  Such  phenomena  are  the  natural  result 
of  evil  conditions,  as  inevitable  as  the  flooding  of  the  river 
banks  by  the  swelling  mountain  torrents.  But  I  cannot  agree 
with  you  regarding  the  social  value  of  Leon’s  act. 

I  have  read  of  the  beautiful  personality  of  the  youth,  of 
his  inability  to  adapt  himself  to  brutal  conditions,  and  the  rebel¬ 
lion  of  his  soul.  It  throws  a  significant  light  upon  the  causes 
of  the  Attentat.  Indeed,  it  is  at  once  the  greatest  tragedy  of 
martyrdom,  and  the  most  terrible  indictment  of  society,  that 
it  forces  the  noblest  men  and  women  to  shed  human  blood, 
though  their  souls  shrink  from  it.  But  the  more  imperative 
it  is  that  drastic  methods  of  this  character  be  resorted  to  only 
as  a  last  extremity.  To  prove  of  value,  they  must  be  motived 
by  social  rather  than  individual  necessity,  and  be  directed  against 
a  real  and  immediate  enemy  of  the  people.  The  significance 
of  such  a  deed  is  understood  by  the  popular  mind — and  in  that 
alone  is  the  propagandistic,  educational  importance  of  an  Atten¬ 
tat ,  except  if  it  is  exclusively  an  act  of  terrorism. 

Now,  I  do  not  believe  that  this  deed  was  terroristic;  and 
I  doubt  whether  it  was  educational,  because  the  social  necessity 
for  its  performance  was  not  manifest.  That  you  may  not 
misunderstand,  I  repeat :  as  an  expression  of  personal  revolt 
it  was  inevitable,  and  in  itself  an  indictment  of  existing  con¬ 
ditions.  But  the  background  of  social  necessity  was  lacking, 
and  therefore  the  value  of  the  act  was  to  a  great  extent 
nullified. 

In  Russia,  where  political  oppression  is  popularly  felt, 


THE  SHOCK  AT  BUFFALO 


417 


such  a  deed  would  be  of  great  value.  But  the  scheme  of 
political  subjection  is  more  subtle  in  America.  And  though 
McKinley  was  the  chief  representative  of  our  modern  slavery, 
he  could  not  be  considered  in  the  light  of  a  direct  and  immedi¬ 
ate  enemy  of  the  people;  while  in  an  absolutism,  the  autocrat 
is  visible  and  tangible.  The  real  despotism  of  republican  insti¬ 
tutions  is  far  deeper,  more  insidious,  because  it  rests  on  the 
popular  delusion  of  self-government  and  independence.  That 
is  the  subtle  source  of  democratic  tyranny,  and,  as  such,  it  can¬ 
not  be  reached  with  a  bullet. 

fin  modern  capitalism,  exploitation  rather  than  oppression 
is  the  real  enemy  of  the  people.  Oppression  is  but  its  hand¬ 
maid.  Hence  the  battle  is  to  be  waged  in  the  economic  rather 
than  the  political  field.  It  is  therefore  that  I  regard  my  own 
act  as  far  more  significant  and  educational  than  Leon’s.  It 
was  directed  against  a  tangible,  real  oppressor,  visualized  as 
such  by  the  people. 

As  long  as  misery  and  tyranny  fill  the  world,  social  con¬ 
trasts  and  consequent  hatreds  will  persist,  and  the  noblest  of 
the  race — our  Czolgoszes — burst  forth  in  “rockets  of  iron.” 
But  does  this  lightning  really  illumine  the  social  horizon,  or 
merely  confuse  minds  with  the  succeeding  darkness?  The 
struggle  of  labor  against  capital  is  a  class  war,  essentially  and 
chiefly  economic.  In  that  arena  the  battles  must  be  fought. 

It  was  not  these  considerations,  of  course,  that  inspired 
the  nation-wide  man-hunt,  or  the  attitude  even  of  alleged  radi¬ 
cals.  Their  cowardice  has  filled  me  with  loathing  and  sadness. 
The  brutal  farce  of  the  trial,  the  hypocrisy  of  the  whole  pro¬ 
ceeding,  the  thirst  for  the  blood  of  the  martyr, — these  make  one 
almost  despair  of  humanity. 

I  must  close.  The  friend  to  smuggle  out  this  letter  will  be 
uneasy  about  its  bulk.  Send  me  sign  of  receipt,  and  I  hope 
that  you  may  be  permitted  a  little  rest  and  peace,  to  recover 
from  the  nightmare  of  the  last  months. 


Sasha. 


CHAPTER  XLII 


MARRED  LIVES 

I 

The  discussion  with  the  Girl  is  a  source  of  much 
mortification.  Harassed  on  every  side,  persecuted  by 
the  authorities,  and  hounded  even  into  the  street,  my 
friend,  in  her  hour  of  bitterness,  confounds  my  appre¬ 
ciative  disagreement  with  the  denunciation  of  stupidity 
and  inertia.  I  realize  the  inadequacy  of  the  written 
word,  and  despair  at  the  hopelessness  of  human  under¬ 
standing,  as  I  vainly  seek  to  elucidate  the  meaning  of  the 
Buffalo  tragedy  to  friendly  guards  and  prisoners.  Con¬ 
tinued  correspondence  with  the  Girl  accentuates  the 
divergence  of  our  views,  painfully  discovering  the  fun¬ 
damental  difference  of  attitude  underlying  even  common 
conclusions. 

By  degrees  the  stress  of  activities  reacts  upon  my 
friend’s  correspondence.  Our  discussion  lags,  and  soon 
ceases  entirely.  The  world  of  the  outside,  temporarily 
brought  closer,  again  recedes,  and  the  urgency  of  the 
immediate  absorbs  me  in  the  life  of  the  prison. 

II 

A  spirit  of  hopefulness  breathes  in  the  cell-house. 
The  new  commutation  law  is  bringing  liberty  appreciably 
nearer.  In  the  shops  and  yard  the  men  excitedly  discuss 

418 


MARRED  LIVES 


419 


the  increased  “good  time,”  and  prisoners  flit  about  with 
paper  and  pencil,  seeking  a  tutored  friend  to  “figure  out” 
their  time  of  release.  Even  the  solitaries,  on  the  verge  of 
despair,  and  the  long-timers  facing  a  vista  of  cheerless 
years,  are  instilled  with  new  courage  and  hope. 

The  tenor  of  conversation  is  altered.  With  the  ap¬ 
pointment  of  the  new  Warden  the  constant  grumbling 
over  the  food  has  ceased.  Pleasant  surprise  is  manifest 
at  the  welcome  change  in  “the  grub.”  I  wonder  at  the 
tolerant  silence  regarding  the  disappointing  Christmas 
dinner.  The  men  impatiently  frown  down  the  occa¬ 
sional  “kicker.”  The  Warden  is  “green,”  they  argue;  he 
did  not  know  that  we  are  supposed  to  get  currant  bread 
for  the  holidays;  he  will  do  better,  “jest  give  ’im  a 
chanc’t.”  The  improvement  in  the  daily  meals  is  en¬ 
larged  upon,  and  the  men  thrill  with  amazed  expectancy 
at  the  incredible  report,  “Oysters  for  New  Year’s  din¬ 
ner!”  With  gratification  we  hear  the  Major’s  expres¬ 
sion  of  disgust  at  the  filthy  condition  of  the  prison,  his 
condemnation  of  the  basket  cell  and  dungeon  as  bar¬ 
barous,  and  the  promise  of  radical  reforms.  As  an 
earnest  of  his  regime  he  has  released  from  solitary  the 
men  whom  Warden  Wright  had  punished  for  having 
served  as  witnesses  in  the  defence  of  Murphy  and  Mong. 
Greedy  for  the  large  reward,  Hopkins  and  his  stools  had 
accused  the  two  men  of  a  mysterious  murder  committed 
in  Elk  City  several  years  previously.  The  criminal  trial, 
involving  the  suicide  of  an  officer*  whom  the  Warden 
had  forced  to  testify  against  the  defendants,  resulted  in 
the  acquittal  of  the  prisoners,  whereupon  Captain  Wright 

*  Officer  Robert  G.  Hunter,  who  committed  suicide  August 
30,  1901,  in  Clarion,  Pa.  (where  the  trial  took  place).  He  left 
a  written  confession,  in  which  he  accused  Warden  E.  S.  Wright 
of  forcing  him  to  testify  against  men  whom  he  knew  to  be 
innocent. 


420  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


ordered  the  convict-witnesses  for  the  defence  to  be  pun¬ 
ished. 

The  new  Warden,  himself  a  physician,  introduces 
hygienic  rules,  abolishes  the  “holy-stoning”*  of  the  cell- 
house  floor  because  of  the  detrimental  effect  of  the  dust, 
and  decides  to  separate  the  consumptive  and  syphilitic 
prisoners  from  the  comparatively  healthy  ones.  Upon 
examination,  40  per  cent,  of  the  population  are  discov¬ 
ered  in  various  stages  of  tuberculosis,  and  20  per  cent, 
insane.  The  death  rate  from  consumption  is  found  to 
range  between  25  and  60  per  cent.  At  light  tasks  in  the 
block  and  the  yard  the  Major  finds  employment  for  the 
sickly  inmates ;  special  gangs  are  assigned  to  keeping  the 
prison  clean,  the  rest  of  the  men  at  work  in  the  shop. 
With  the  exception  of  a  number  of  dangerously  insane, 
who  are  to  be  committed  to  an  asylum,  every  prisoner 
in  the  institution  is  at  work,  and  the  vexed  problem  of 
idleness  resulting  from  the  anti-convict  labor  law  is  thus 
solved. 

The  change  of  diet,  better  hygiene,  and  the  abolition 
of  the  dungeon,  produce  a  noticeable  improvement  in 
the  life  of  the  prison.  The  gloom  of  the  cell-house 
perceptibly  lifts,  and  presently  the  men  are  surprised  at 
music  hour,  between  six  and  seven  in  the  evening,  with 
the  strains  of  merry  ragtime  by  the  newly  organized, 
penitentiary  band. 

Ill 

New  faces  greet  me  on  the  range.  But  many  old 
friends  are  missing.  Billy  Ryan  is  dead  of  consumption ; 
“Frenchy”  and  Ben  have  become  insane;  Little  Mat,  the 

*  The  process  of  whitening  stone  floors  by  pulverizing  sand 
into  their  surfaces. 


MARRED  LIVES 


421 


Duquesne  striker,  committed  suicide.  In  sad  remem¬ 
brance  I  think  of  them,  grown  close  and  dear  in  the 

years  of  mutual  suffering.  Some  of  the  old-timers  have 

*  \ 

survived,  but  broken  in  spirit  and  health.  “Praying” 
Andy  is  still  in  the  block,  his  mind  clouded,  his  lips  con¬ 
stantly  moving  in  prayer.  “Me  innocent,”  the  old  man 
reiterates,  “God  him  know.”  Last  month  the  Board  has 
again  refused  to  pardon  the  lifetimer,  and  now  he  is 
bereft  of  hope.  “Me  have  no  more  money.  My  children 
they  save  and  save,  and  bring  me  for  pardon,  and  now 
no  more  money.”  Aleck  Killain  has  also  been  refused 
by  the  Board  at  the  same  session.  He  is  the  oldest  man 
in  the  prison,  in  point  of  service,  and  the  most  popu¬ 
lar  lifer.  His  innocence  of  murder  is  one  of  the  tradi¬ 
tions  of  Riverside.  In  the  boat  he  had  rented  to  a  party 
of  picnickers,  a  woman  was  found  dead.  No  clew  could 
be  discovered,  and  Aleck  was  sentenced  to  life,  because 
he  could  not  be  forced  to  divulge  the  names  of  the 
men  who  had  hired  his  boat.  He  pauses  to  tell  me  the 
sad  news :  the  authorities  have  opposed  his  pardon, 
demanding  that  he  furnish  the  information  desired  by 
them.  He  looks  sere  with  confinement,  his  eyes  full 
of  a  mute  sadness  that  can  find  no  words.  His  face  is 
deeply  seamed,  his  features  grave,  almost  immobile.  In 
the  long  years  of  our  friendship  I  have  never  seen  Aleck 
laugh.  Once  or  twice  he  smiled,  and  his  whole  being 
seemed  radiant  with  rare  sweetness.  He  speaks  abruptly, 
with  a  perceptible  effort. 

“Yes,  Aleck,”  he  is  saying,  “it’s  true.  They  refused 
me.” 

“But  they  pardoned  Mac,”  I  retort  hotly.  “He  con¬ 
fessed  to  a  cold-blooded  murder,  and  he’s  only  been  in 
four  years.” 

“Good  luck,”  he  remarks. 

“How,  good  luck?” 


422  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

“Mac’s  father  accidentally  struck  oil  on  his  farm 

“Well,  what  of  it?” 

“Three  hundred  barrels  a  day.  Rich.  Got  his  son 
a  pardon.” 

“But  on  what  ground  did  they  dismiss  your  applica¬ 
tion?  They  know  you  are  innocent.” 

“District  Attorney  came  to  me.  ‘You’re  innocent,  we 
know.  Tell  us  who  did  the  murder.’  I  had  nothing  to 
tell.  Pardon  refused.” 

“Is  there  any  hope  later  on,  Aleck?” 

“When  the  present  administration  are  all  dead,  per¬ 
haps.” 

Slowly  he  passes  on,  at  the  approach  of  a  guard.  He 
walks  weakly,  with  halting  step. 

“Old  Sammy”  is  back  again,  his  limp  heavier,  shoul¬ 
ders  bent  lower.  “I’m  here  again,  friend  Aleck,”  he 
smiles  apologetically.  “What  could  I  do?  The  old 
woman  died,  an’  my  boys  went  off  somewhere.  TIT 
farm  was  sold  that  I  was  borned  in,”  his  voice  trembles 
with  emotion.  “I  couldn’t  find  th’  boys,  an’  no  one 
wanted  me,  an’  wouldn’t  give  me  any  work.  ‘Go  to  th’ 
pogy’,*  they  told  me.  I  couldn’t,  Aleck.  I’ve  worked  all 
me  life;  I  don’t  want  no  charity.  I  made  a  bluff,”  he 
smiles  between  tears, — “Broke  into  a  store,  and  here  I 
am.” 

With  surprise  I  recognize  “Tough”  Monk  among 
the  first-grade  men.  For  years  he  had  been  kept  in 
stripes,  and  constantly  punished  for  bad  work  in  the 
hosiery  department.  He  was  called  the  laziest  man  in 
the  prison :  not  once  in  five  years  had  he  accomplished  his 
task.  But  the  new  Warden  transferred  him  to  the  con¬ 
struction  shop,  where  Monk  was  employed  at  his  trade 


*  Poorhouse. 


MARRED  LIVES 


423 


of  blacksmith.  “I  hated  that  damn  sock  makin’,”  he 
tells  me.  “I’ve  struck  it  right  now,  an’  the  Major  says 
I’m  the  best  worker  in  th’  shop.  Wouldn’t  believe  it,  eh, 
would  you?  Major  promised  me  a  ten-spot  for  the  fancy 
iron  work  I  did  for  them  ’lectric  posts  in  th’  yard.  Says 
it’s  artistic,  see?  That’s  me  all  right;  it’s  work  I  like.  I 
won’t  lose  any  time,  either.  Warden  says  Old  Sandy 
was  a  fool  for  makin’  me  knit  socks  with  them  big  paws 
of  mine.  Th’  Major  is  aw’  right,  aw’  right.” 

With  a  glow  of  pleasure  I  meet  “Smiling”  Al,  my 
colored  friend  from  the  jail.  The  good-natured  boy 
looks  old  and  infirm.  His  kindness  has  involved  him  in 
much  trouble ;  he  has  been  repeatedly  punished  for  shoul¬ 
dering  the  faults  of  others,  and  now  the  Inspectors  have 
informed  him  that  he  is  to  lose  the  greater  part  of  his 
commutation  time.  He  has  grown  wan  with  worry  over 
the  uncertainty  of  release.  Every  morning  is  tense  with 
expectation.  “Might  be  Ah  goes  to-day,  Aleck,”  he 
hopefully  smiles  as  I  pause  at  his  cell.  But  the  weeks 
pass.  The  suspense  is  torturing  the  young  negro,  and  he 
is  visibly  failing  day  by  day. 

A  familiar  voice  greets  me.  “Hello,  Berk,  ain’t  you 
glad  t’  see  an  old  pal  ?”  Big  Dave  beams  on  me  with  his 
cheerful  smile. 

“No,  Davy.  I  hoped  you  wouldn’t  come  back.” 

He  becomes  very  grave.  “Yes,  I  swore  I’d  swing 
sooner  than  come  back.  Didn’t  get  a  chanc’t.  You  see,” 
he  explains,  his  tone  full  of  bitterness,  “I  goes  t’  work 
and  gets  a  job,  good  job,  too;  an’  I  keeps  ’way  from  th’ 
booze  an’  me  pals.  But  th’  damn  bulls  was  after  me. 
Got  me  sacked  from  me  job  three  times,  an’  den  I 
knocked  one  of  ’em  on  th’  head.  Damn  his  soul  to  hell, 
wish  I’d  killed  ’im.  ‘Old  offender,’  they  says  to  the 


424  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


jedge,  and  he  soaks  me  for  a  seven  spot.  I  was  a  sucker 
all  right  for  tryin’  t’  be  straight.” 

IV 

In  the  large  cage  at  the  centre  of  the  block,  the  men 
employed  about  the  cell-house  congregate  in  their  idle 
moments.  The  shadows  steal  silently  in  and  out  of  the 
inclosure,  watchful  of  the  approach  of  a  guard.  With¬ 
in  sounds  the  hum  of  subdued  conversation,  the  men 
lounging  about  the  sawdust  barrel,  absorbed  in  “Snakes” 
Wilson’s  recital  of  his  protracted  struggle  with  “Old 
Sandy.”  He  relates  vividly  his  persistent  waking  at 
night,  violent  stamping  on  the  floor,  cries  of  “Murder !  I 
see  snakes !”  With  admiring  glances  the  young  prison¬ 
ers  hang  upon  the  lips  of  the  old  criminal,  whose  per¬ 
severance  in  shamming  finally  forced  the  former  War¬ 
den  to  assign  “Snakes”  a  special  room  in  the  hospital, 
where  his  snake-seeing  propensities  would  become  dor¬ 
mant,  to  suffer  again  violent  awakening  the  moment 
he  would  be  transferred  to  a  cell.  For  ten  years  the 
struggle  continued,  involving  numerous  clubbings,  the 
dungeon,  and  the  strait- jacket,  till  the  Warden  yielded, 
and  “Snakes”  was  permanently  established  in  the  com¬ 
parative  freedom  of  the  special  room. 

Little  groups  stand  about  the  cage,  boisterous  with 
the  wit  of  the  “Four-eyed  Yegg,”  who  styles  himself  “Bill 
Nye,”  or  excitedly  discussing  the  intricacies  of  the  com¬ 
mutation  law,  the  chances  of  Pittsburgh  winning  the 
baseball  pennant  the  following  season,  and  next  Sunday’s 
dinner.  With  much  animation,  the  rumored  resignation 
of  the  Deputy  Warden  is  discussed.  The  Major  is 
gradually  weeding  out  the  “old  gang,”  it  is  gossiped.  A 
colonel  of  the  militia  is  to  secure  the  position  of  assistant 
to  the  Warden.  This  source  of  conversation  is  inex- 


MARRED  LIVES 


425 


haustible,  every  detail  of  local  life  serving  for  endless 
discussion  and  heated  debate.  But  at  the  ‘lookout’s’ 
whispered  warning  of  an  approaching  guard,  the  circle 
breaks  up,  each  man  pretending  to  be  busy  dusting 
and  cleaning.  Officer  Mitchell  passes  by;  with  short  legs 
wide  apart,  he  stands  surveying  the  assembled  idlers 
from  beneath  his  fierce-looking  eyebrows. 

“Quiet  as  me  grandmother  at  church,  ain’t  ye?  All 
of  a  sudden,  too.  And  mighty  busy,  every  damn  one  of 
you.  You  ‘Snakes’  there,  what  business  you  got  here, 
eh?” 

“I’ve  jest  come  in  fer  a  broom.” 

“You  old  reprobate,  you,  I  saw  you  sneak  in  there 
an  hour  ago,  and  you’ve  been  chawin’  the  rag  to  beat 
the  band.  Think  this  a  barroom,  do  you?  Get  to  your 
cells,  all  of  you.” 

He  trudges  slowly  away,  mumbling:  “You  loafers, 
when  I  catch  you  here  again,  don’t  you  dare  talk  so 
loud.” 

One  by  one  the  men  steal  back  into  the  cage,  jokingly 
teasing  each  other  upon  their  happy  escape.  Presently 
several  rangemen  join  the  group.  Conversation  becomes 
animated;  voices  are  raised  in  dispute.  But  anger  sub¬ 
sides,  and  a  hush  falls  upon  the  men,  as  Blind  Charley 
gropes  his  way  along  the  wall.  Bill  Nye  reaches  for 
his  hand,  and  leads  him  to  a  seat  on  the  barrel.  “Feelin’ 
better  to-day,  Charley?”  he  asks  gently. 

“Ye-es,  I — think  a  little — better,”  the  blind  man  says 
in  an  uncertain,  hesitating  manner.  His  face  wears  a 
bewildered  expression,  as  if  he  has  not  yet  become  re¬ 
signed  to  his  great  misfortune.  It  happened  only  a  few 
months  ago.  In  company  with  two  friends,  considerably 
the  worse  for  liquor,  he  was  passing  a  house  on  the  out¬ 
skirts  of.  Allegheny.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  they 
wanted  a  drink.  Charley  knocked  at  the  door.  A  head 


426  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


appeared  at  an  upper  window.  “Robbers!”  some  one 
suddenly  cried.  There  was  a  flash.  With  a  cry  of  pain, 
Charley  caught  at  his  eyes.  He  staggered,  then  turned 
round  and  round,  helpless,  in  a  daze.  He  couldn’t  see 
his  companions,  the  house  and  the  street  disappeared,  and 
all  was  utter  darkness.  The  ground  seemed  to  give  be¬ 
neath  his  feet,  and  Charley  fell  down  upon  his  face, 
moaning  and  calling  to  his  friends.  But  they  had  fled 
in  terror,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  darkness, — alone  and 
blind. 

“I’m  glad  you  feel  better,  Charley,”  Bill  Nye  says 
kindly.  “How  are  your  eyes?” 

“I  think — a  bit — better.” 

The  gunshot  had  severed  the  optic  nerves  in  both 
eyes.  His  sight  is  destroyed  forever;  but  with  the  in¬ 
complete  realization  of  sudden  calamity,  Charley  believes 
his  eyesight  only  temporarily  injured. 

“Billy,”  he  says  presently,  “when  I  woke  this  morn¬ 
ing,  it — didn’t  seem  so — dark.  It  was  like — a  film  over 
my  eyes.  Perhaps — it  may — get  better  yet,”  his  voice 
quivers  with  the  expectancy  of  having  his  hope  con¬ 
firmed. 

“Ah,  whatcher  kiddin’  yourself  for,”  “Snakes”  inter¬ 
poses. 

“Shut  up,  you  big  stiff,”  Bill  flares  up,  grabbing 
“Snakes”  by  the  throat.  “Charley,”  he  adds,  “I  once  got 
paralyzed  in  my  left  eye.  It  looked  just  like  yours  now, 
and  I  felt  as  if  there  was  a  film  on  it.  Do  you  see  things 
like  in  a  fog,  Charley?” 

“Yes,  yes,  just  like  that.” 

“Well,  that’s  the  way  it  was  with  me.  But  little  by 
little  things  got  to  be  lighter,  and  now  the  eye  is  as  good 
as  ever.” 

“Is  that  right,  Billy?”  Charley  inquires  anxiously. 
“What  did  you  do?” 


MARRED  LIVES 


427 


“Well,  the  doc  put  things  in  my  eye.  The  croaker 
here  is  giving  you  some  applications,  ain’t  he?” 

“Yes;  but  he  says  it’s  for  the  inflammation.” 

“That’s  right.  That’s  what  the  doctors  told  me.  You 
just  take  it  easy,  Charley;  don’t  worry.  You’ll  come  out 
all  right,  see  if  you  don’t.” 

Bill  reddens  guiltily  at  the  unintended  expression, 
but  quickly  holds  up  a  warning  finger  to  silence  the 
giggling  “Snowball  Kid.”  Then,  with  sudden  vehemence, 
he  exclaims:  “By  God,  Charley,  if  I  ever  meet  that  Judge 
of  yours  on  a  dark  night,  I’ll  choke  him  with  these  here 
hands,  so  help  me !  It’s  a  damn  shame  to  send  you  here 
in  this  condition.  You  should  have  gone  to  a  hospital, 
that’s  what  I  say.  But  cheer  up,  old  boy,  you  won’t 
have  to  serve  your  three  years;  you  can  bet  on  that. 
We’ll  all  club  together  to  get  your  case  up  for  a  pardon, 
won’t  we,  boys?” 

With  unwonted  energy  the  old  yegg  makes  the  rounds 
of  the  cage,  taking  pledges  of  contributions.  “Doctor 
George”  appears  around  the  corner,  industriously  pol¬ 
ishing  the  brasswork,  and  Bill  appeals  to  him  to  cor¬ 
roborate  his  diagnosis  of  the  blind  man’s  condition.  A 
smile  of  timid  joy  suffuses  the  sightless  face,  as  Bill 
Nye  slaps  him  on  the  shoulder,  crying  jovially,  “What 
did  I  tell  you,  eh?  You’ll  be  O.  K.  soon,  and  meantime 
keep  your  mind  busy  how  to  avenge  the  injustice  done 
you,”  and  with  a  violent  wink  in  the  direction  of 
“Snakes,”  the  yegg  launches  upon  a  reminiscence  of  his 
youth.  As  far  as  he  can  remember,  he  relates,  the  spirit 
of  vengeance  was  strong  within  him.  He  has  always 
religiously  revenged  any  wrong  he  was  made  to  suffer, 
but  the  incident  that  afforded  him  the  greatest  joy  was 
an  experience  of  his  boyhood.  He  was  fifteen  then,  and 
living  with  his  widowed  mother  and  three  elder  sisters 


428  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


in  a  small  country  place.  One  evening,  as  the  family 
gathered  in  the  large  sitting-room,  his  sister  Mary  said 
something  which  deeply  offended  him.  In  great  rage 
he  left  the  house.  Just  as  he  was  crossing  the  street, 
he  was  met  by  a  tall,  well-dressed  gentleman,  evidently 
a  stranger  in  the  town.  The  man  guardedly  inquired 
whether  the  boy  could  direct  him  to  some  address  where 
one  might  pass  the  evening  pleasantly.  “Quick  as  a 
flash  a  brilliant  idea  struck  me,”  Bill  narrates,  warming 
to  his  story.  “Never  short  of  them,  anyhow,”  he  re- 
'marks  parenthetically,  “but  here  was  my  revenge !  ‘You 
mean  a  whore-house,  don’t  you  ?’  I  ask  the  fellow.  Yes, 
that’s  what  was  wanted,  my  man  says.  ‘Why,’  says  I 
to  him,  kind  of  suddenly,  ‘see  the  house  there  right 
across  the  street?  That’s  the  place  you  want,’  and  I 
point  out  to  him  the  house  where  the  old  lady  and  my 
three  sisters  are  all  sitting  around  the  table,  expectant¬ 
like — waiting  for  me,  you  know.  Well,  the  man  gives 
me  a  quarter,  and  up  he  goes,  knocks  on  the  door,  and 
steps  right  in.  I  hide  in  a  dark  corner  to  see  what’s 
coming,  you  know,  and  sure  enough,  presently  the  door 
opens  with  a  bang  and  something  comes  out  with  a 
rush,  and  falls  on  the  veranda,  and  mother  she’s  got  a 
broom  in  her  hand,  and  the  girls,  every  blessed  one  of 
them,  out  with  flatiron  and  dustpan,  and  biff,  baff,  they 
rain  it  upon  that  thing  on  the  steps.  I  thought  I’d  split 
my  sides  laughing.  By  an’  by  I  return  to  the  house, 
and  mother  and  sisters  are  kind  of  excited,  and  I  says, 
innocent-like,  ‘What’s  up,  girls?’  Well,  you  ought  to 
hear  ’em!  Talk,  did  they?  ‘That  beast  of  a  man,  the 
dirty  thing  that  came  to  the  house  and  insulted  us 
with — ’  they  couldn’t  even  mention  the  awful  things 
he  said;  and  Mary — that’s  the  sis  I  got  mad  at — she 
cries,  ‘Oh,  Billie,  you’re  so  big  and  strong,  I  wish  you 
was  here  when  that  nasty  old  thing  came  up.’  ” 


MARRED  LIVES 


429 


The  boys  are  hilarious  over  the  story,  and  “Doctor 
George’’  motions  me  aside  to  talk  over  “old  times.”  With 
a  hearty  pressure  I  greet  my  friend,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  since  the  days  of  the  first  investigation.  Suspected 
of  complicity,  he  had  been  removed  to  the  shops,  and 
only  recently  returned  to  his  former  position  in  the 
block.  His  beautiful  thick  hair  has  grown  thin  and  gray ; 
he  looks  aged  and  worn.  With  sadness  I  notice  his 
tone  of  bitterness.  “They  almost  killed  me,  Aleck!”  he 
says ;  “if  it  wasn’t  for  my  wife,  I’d  murder  that  old 
Warden.”  Throughout  his  long  confinement,  his  wife 
had  faithfully  stood  by  him,  her  unfailing  courage  and 
devotion  sustaining  him  in  the  hours  of  darkness  and 
despair.  “The  dear  girl,”  he  muses,  “I’d  be  dead  if  it 
wasn’t  for  her.”  But  his  release  is  approaching.  He 
has  almost  served  the  sentence  of  sixteen  years  for  al¬ 
leged  complicity  in  the  bank  robbery  at  Leechburg,  dur¬ 
ing  which  the  cashier  was  killed.  The  other  two  men 
convicted  of  the  crime  have  both  died  in  prison.  The 
Doctor  alone  has  survived,  “thanks  to  the  dear  girl,”  he 
repeats.  But  the  six  months  at  the  workhouse  fill  him 
with  apprehension.  He  has  been  informed  that  the 
place  is  a  veritable  inferno,  even  worse  than  the  peni¬ 
tentiary.  However,  his  wife  is  faithfully  at  work,  try¬ 
ing  to  have  the  workhouse  sentence  suspended,  and  full 
liberty  may  be  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


The  presence  of  my  old  friend  is  a  source  of  much 
pleasure.  George  is  an  intelligent  man;  the  long  years 
of  incarceration  have  not  circumscribed  his  intellectual 
horizon.  The  approach  of  release  is  intensifying  his  in¬ 
terest  in  the  life  beyond  the  gates,  and  we  pass  the  idle 
hours  conversing  over  subjects  of  mutual  interest,  dis¬ 
cussing  social  theories  and  problems  of  the  day.  He  has 
a  broad  grasp  of  affairs,  but  his  temperament  and 
Catholic  traditions  are  antagonistic  to  the  ideas  dear  to 
me.  Yet  his  attitude  is  free  from  personalities  and 
narrow  prejudice,  and  our  talks  are  conducted  along 
scientific  and  philosophical  lines.  The  recent  death  of 
Liebknecht  and  the  American  lecture  tour  of  Peter  Kro¬ 
potkin  afford  opportunity  for  the  discussion  of  modern 
social  questions.  There  are  many  subjects  of  mutual 
interest,  and  my  friend,  whose  great-grandfather  was 
among  the  signers  of  the  Declaration,  waxes  eloquent  in 
denunciation  of  his  country’s  policy  of  extermination  in 
the  Philippines  and  the  growing  imperialistic  tendencies 
of  the  Republic.  A  Democrat  of  the  Jeffersonian  type, 
lie  is  virulent  against  the  old  Warden  on  account  of  his 
favoritism  and  discrimination.  His  prison  experience, 
he  informs  me,  has  considerably  altered  the  views  of 
democracy  he  once  entertained. 

“Why,  Aleck,  there  is  no  justice,”  he  says  vehement¬ 
ly;  “no,  not  even  in  the  best  democracy.  Ten  years  ago 

430 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


431 


I  would  have  staked  my  life  on  the  courts.  To-day  I 
know  they  are  a  failure;  our  whole  jurisprudence  is 
wrong.  You  see,  I  have  been  here  nine  years.  I  have 
met  and  made  friends  with  hundreds  of  criminals.  Some 
were  pretty  desperate,  and  many  of  them  scoundrels. 
But  I  have  to  meet  one  yet  in  whom  I  couldn’t  discover 
some  good  quality,  if  he’s  scratched  right.  Look  at  that 
fellow  there,”  he  points  to  a  young  prisoner  scrubbing  an 
upper  range,  “that’s  ‘Johnny  the  Hunk.’  He’s  in  for  mur¬ 
der.  Now  what  did  the  judge  and  jury  know  about  him? 
Just  this:  he  was  a  hard-working  boy  in  the  mills.  One 
Saturday  he  attended  a  wedding,  with  a  chum  of  his. 
They  were  both  drunk  when  they  went  out  into  the 
street.  They  were  boisterous,  and  a  policeman  tried  to 
arrest  them.  Johnny’s  chum  resisted.  The  cop  must 
have  lost  his  head — he  shot  the  fellow  dead.  It  was 
right  near  Johnny’s  home,  and  he  ran  in  and  got  a  pistol, 
and  killed  the  policeman.  Must  have  been  crazy  with 
drink.  Well,  they  were  going  to  hang  him,  but  he  was 
only  a  kid,  hardly  sixteen.  They  gave  him  fifteen  years. 
Now  he’s  all  in — they’ve  just  ruined  the  boy’s  life.  And 
what  kind  of  a  boy  is  he,  do  you  know?  Guess  what 
he  did.  It  was  only  a  few  months  ago.  Some  screw  told 
him  that  the  widow  of  the  cop  he  shot  is  hard  up;  she 
has  three  children,  and  takes  in  washing.  Do  you  know 
what  Johnny  did?  He  went  around  among  the  cons, 
and  got  together  fifty  dollars  on  the  fancy  paper-work 
he  is  making;  he’s  an  artist  at  it.  He  sent  the  woman 
the  money,  and  begged  her  to  forgive  him.” 

“Is  that  true,  Doctor?” 

“Every  word.  I  went  to  Milligan’s  office  on  some 
business,  and  the  boy  had  just  sent  the  money  to  the 
woman.  The  Chaplain  was  so  much  moved  by  it,  he 
told  me  the  whole  story.  But  wait,  that  isn’t  all.  You 
know  what  that  woman  did?” 


432  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“ What  ?” 

"‘She  wrote  to  Johnny  that  he  was  a  dirty  murderer, 
and  that  if  he  ever  goes  up  for  a  pardon,  she  will  oppose 
it.  She  didn’t  want  anything  to  do  with  him,  she  wrote. 
But  she  kept  the  money.” 

“How  did  Johnny  take  it?” 

“It’s  really  wonderful  about  human  nature.  The  boy 
cried  over  the  letter,  and  told  the  Chaplain  that  he 
wouldn’t  write  to  her  again.  But  every  minute  he  can 
spare  he  works  on  that  fancy  work,  and  every  month  he 
sends  her  money.  That’s  the  criminal  the  judge  sen¬ 
tenced  to  fifteen  years  in  this  hell !” 

My  friend  is  firmly  convinced  that  the  law  is  entirely 
impotent  to  deal  with  our  social  ills.  “Why,  look  at  the 
courts!”  he  exclaims,  “they  don’t  concern  themselves 
with  crime.  They  merely  punish  the  criminal,  abso¬ 
lutely  indifferent  to  his  antecedents  and  environment, 
and  the  predisposing  causes.” 

“But,  George,”  I  rejoin,  “it  is  the  economic  system 
of  exploitation,  the  dependence  upon  a  master  for  your 
livelihood,  want  and  the  fear  of  want,  which  are  re¬ 
sponsible  for  most  crimes.” 

“Only  partly  so,  Aleck.  If  it  wasn’t  for  the  corrup¬ 
tion  in  our  public  life,  and  the  commercial  scourge  that 
holds  everything  for  sale,  and  the  spirit  of  materialism 
which  has  cheapened  human  life,  there  would  not  be  so 
much  violence  and  crime,  even  under  what  you  call  the 
capitalist  system.  At  any  rate,  there  is  no  doubt  the 
law  is  an  absolute  failure  in  dealing  with  crime.  The 
criminal  belongs  to  the  sphere  of  therapeutics.  Give  him 
to  the  doctor  instead  of  the  jailer.” 

“You  mean,  George,  that  the  criminal  is  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  a  product  of  anthropological  and  physical  fac¬ 
tors.  But  don’t  you  see  that  you  must  also  examine 
society,  to  determine  to  what  extent  social  conditions  are 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


433 


responsible  for  criminal  actions  ?  And  if  that  were  done, 
I  believe  most  crimes  would  be  found  to  be  misdirected 
energy — misdirected  because  of  false  standards,  wrong 
environment,  and  unenlightened  self-interest.” 

“Well,  I  haven’t  given  much  thought  to  that  phase 
of  the  question.  But  aside  of  social  conditions,  see  what 
a  botch  the  penal  institutions  are  making  of  it.  For  one 
thing,  the  promiscuous  mingling  of  young  and  old,  with¬ 
out  regard  to  relative  depravity  and  criminality,  is  con¬ 
verting  prisons  into  veritable  schools  of  crime  and  vice. 
The  blackjack  and  the  dungeon  are  surely  not  the  proper 
means  of  reclamation,  no  matter  what  the  social  causes 
of  crime.  Restraint  and  penal  methods  can’t  reform. 
The  very  idea  of  punishment  precludes  betterment.  True 
reformation  can  emanate  only  from  voluntary  impulse, 
inspired  and  cultivated  by  intelligent  advice  and  kind 
treatment.  But  reformation  which  is  the  result  of  fear, 
lacks  the  very  essentials  of  its  object,  and  will  vanish 
like  smoke  the  moment  fear  abates.  And  you  know, 
Aleck,  the  reformatories  are  even  worse  than  the  prisons. 
Look  at  the  fellows  here  from  the  various  reform 
schools.  Why,  it’s  a  disgrace!  The  boys  who  come 
from  the  outside  are  decent  fellows.  But  those  kids 
from  the  reformatories — one-third  of  the  cons  here  have 
graduated  there — they  are  terrible.  You  can  spot  them 
by  looking  at  them.  They  are  worse  than  street  prosti¬ 
tutes.” 

My  friend  is  very  bitter  against  the  prison  element 
variously  known  as  “the  girls,”  “Sallies,”  and  “punks,” 
who  for  gain  traffic  in  sexual  gratification.  But  he 
takes  a  broad  view  of  the  moral  aspect  of  homosexual¬ 
ity;  his  denunciation  is  against  the  commerce  in  carnal 
desires.  As  a  medical  man,  and  a  student,  he  is  deeply 
interested  in  the  manifestations  of  suppressed  sex.  He 
speaks  with  profound  sympathy  of  the  brilliant  English 


434  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


man-of-letters,  whom  the  world  of  cant  and  stupidity 
has  driven  to  prison  and  to  death  because  his  sex  life 
did  not  conform  to  the  accepted  standards.  In  detail,  my 
friend  traces  the  various  phases  of  his  psychic  develop¬ 
ment  since  his  imprisonment,  and  I  warm  toward  him 
with  a  sense  of  intense  humanity,  as  he  reveals  the  in¬ 
timate  emotions  of  his  being.  A  general  medical  practi¬ 
tioner,  he  had  not  come  in  personal  contact  with  cases 
of  homosexuality.  He  had  heard  of  pederasty;  but 
like  the  majority  of  his  colleagues,  he  had  neither  under¬ 
standing  for  nor  sympathy  with  the  sex  practices  he 
considered  abnormal  and  vicious.  In  prison  he  was 
horrified  at  the  perversion  that  frequently  came  under 
his  observation.  For  two  years  the  very  thought  of 
such  matters  filled  him  with  disgust;  he  even  refused 
to  speak  to  the  men  and  boys  known  to  be  homosexual, 
unconditionally  condemning  them — “with  my  prejudices 
rather  than  my  reason,”  he  remarks.  But  the  forces  of 
suppression  were  at  work.  “Now,  this  is.  in  confidence, 
Aleck,”  he  cautions  me.  “I  know  you  will  understand. 
Probably  you  yourself  have  experienced  the  same  thing. 
I’m  glad  I  cafi  talk  to  some  one  about  it;  the  other  fel¬ 
lows  here  wouldn’t  understand  it.  It  makes  me  sick  to 
see  how  they  all  grow  indignant  over  a  fellow  who  is 
caught.  And  the  officers,  too,  though  you  know  as  well 
as  I  that  quite  a  number  of  them  are  addicted  to  these 
practices.  Well,  I’ll  tell  you.  I  suppose  it’s  the  same 
story  with  every  one  here,  especially  the  long-timers. 
I  was  terribly  dejected  and  hopeless  when  I  came.  Six¬ 
teen  years — I  didn’t  believe  for  a  moment  I  could  live 
through  it.  I  was  abusing  myself  pretty  badly.  Still, 
after  a  while,  when  I  got  work  and  began  to  take  an  inter¬ 
est  in  this  life,  I  got  over  it.  But  as  time  went,  the  sex 
instinct  awakened.  I  was  young:  about  twenty-five, 
strong  and  healthy.  Sometimes  I  thought  I’d  get  crazy 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


435 


with  passion.  You  remember  when  we  were  celling  to¬ 
gether  on  that  upper  range,  on  R;  you  were  in  the 
stocking  shop  then,  Weren’t  you?  Don’t  you  remember?” 

“Of  course  I  remember,  George.  You  were  in  the 
cell  next  mine.  We  could  see  out  on  the  river.  It  was 
in  the  summer:  we  could  hear  the  excursion  boats,  and 
the  girls  singing  and  dancing.” 

“That,  too,  helped  to  turn  me  back  to  onanism.  I 
really  believe  the  whole  blessed  range  used  to  ‘indulge’ 
then.  Think  of  the  precious  material  fed  to  the  fishes,” 
he  smiles ;  “the  privies,  you  know,  empty  into  the  river.” 

“Some  geniuses  may  have  been  lost  to  the  world  in 
those  orgies.” 

“Yes,  orgies;  that’s  just  what  they  were.  As  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  fact,  I  don’t  believe  there  is  a  single  man  in  the 
prison  who  doesn’t  abuse  himself,  at  one  time  or 
another.” 

“If  there  is,  he’s  a  mighty  exception.  I  have  known 
some  men  to  masturbate  four  and  five  times  a  day.  Kept 
it  up  for  months,  too.” 

“Yes,  and  they  either  get  the  con,  or  go  bugs.  As  a 
medical  man  I  think  that  self-abuse,  if  practised  no  more 
frequently  than  ordinary  coition,  would  be  no  more  in¬ 
jurious  than  the  latter.  But  it  can’t  be  done.  It  grows 
on  you  terribly.  And  the  second  stage  is  more  dangerous 
than  the  first.” 

“What  do  you  call  the  second?” 

“Well,  the  first  is  the  dejection  stage.  Hopeless  and 
despondent,  you  seek  forgetfulness  in  onanism.  You  don't 
care  what  happens.  It’s  what  I  might  call  mechanical 
self-abuse,  not  induced  by  actual  sex  desire.  This  stage 
passes  with  your  dejection,  as  soon  as  you  begin  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  new  life,  as  all  of  us  are  forced  to 
do,  before  long.  The  second  stage  is  the  psychic  and 


436  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


mental.  It  is  not  the  result  of  dejection.  With  the 
gradual  adaptation  to  the  new  conditions,  a  compara¬ 
tively  normal  life  begins,  manifesting  sexual  desires.  At 
this  stage  your  self-abuse  is  induced  by  actual  need.  It 
is  the  more  dangerous  phase,  because  the  frequency  of 
the  practice  grows  with  the  recurring  thought  of  home, 
your  wife  or  sweetheart.  While  the  first  was  mechanical, 
giving  no  special  pleasure,  and  resulting  only  in  increas¬ 
ing  lassitude,  the  second  stage  revolves  about  the  charms 
of  some  loved  woman,  or  one  desired,  and  affords  intense 
joy.  Therein  is  its  allurement  and  danger;  and  that’s 
why  the  habit  gains  in  strength.  The  more  misera¬ 
ble  the  life,  the  more  frequently  you  will  fall  back  upon 
your  sole  source  of  pleasure.  Many  become  helpless 
victims.  I  have  noticed  that  prisoners  of  lower  intelli¬ 
gence  are  the  worst  in  this  respect.” 

“I  have  had  the  same  experience.  The  narrower  your 
mental  horizon,  the  more  you  dwell  upon  your  personal 
troubles  and  wrongs.  That  is  probably  the  reason  why 
the  more  illiterate  go  insane  with  confinement.” 

“No  doubt  of  it.  You  have  had  exceptional  oppor¬ 
tunities  for  observation  of  the  solitaries  and  the  new 
men.  What  did  you  notice,  Aleck  ?” 

“Well,  in  some  respects  the  existence  of  a  prisoner 
is  like  the  life  of  a  factory  worker.  As  a  rule,  men  used 
to  outdoor  life  suffer  most  from  solitary.  They  are  less 
able  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  close  quarters,  and  the 
foul  air  quickly  attacks  their  lungs.  Besides,  those  who 
have  no  interests  beyond  their  personal  life,  soon  become 
victims  of  insanity.  I’ve  always  advised  new  men  to 
interest  themselves  in  some  study  or  fancy  work, — it’s 
their  only  salvation.” 

“If  you  yourself  have  survived,  it’s  because  you  lived 
in  your  theories  and  ideals;  I’m  sure  of  it.  And  I  con- 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


437 


tinued  my  medical  studies,  and  sought  to  absorb  myself 
in  scientific  subjects.” 

For  a  moment  George  pauses.  The  veins  of  his  fore¬ 
head  protrude,  as  if  he  is  undergoing  a  severe  mental 
struggle.  Presently  he  says :  “Aleck,  Pm  going  to  speak 
very  frankly  to  you.  I’m  much  interested  in  the  sub¬ 
ject.  I’ll  give  you  my  intimate  experiences,  and  I  want 
you  to  be  just  as  frank  with  me.  I  think  it’s  one  of 
the  most  important  things,  and  I  want  to  learn  all  I  can 
about  it.  Very  little  is  known  about  it,  and  much  less 
understood.” 

“About  what,  George?” 

“About  homosexuality.  I  have  spoken  of  the  second 
phase  of  onanism.  With  a  strong  effort  I  overcame  it. 
Not  entirely,  of  course.  But  I  have  succeeded  in  regu¬ 
lating  the  practice,  indulging  in  it  at  certain  intervals. 
But  as  the  months  and  years  passed,  my  emotions  mani¬ 
fested  themselves.  It  was  like  a  psychic  awakening. 
The  desire  to  love  something  was  strong  upon  me.  Once 
I  caught  a  little  mouse  in  my  cell,  and  tamed  it  a  bit. 
It  would  eat  out  of  my  hand,  and  come  around  at 
meal  times,  and  by  and  by  it  would  stay  all  evening  to 
play  with  me.  I  learned  to  love  it.  Honestly,  Aleck,  I 
cried  when  it  died.  And  then,  for  a  long  time,  I  felt 
as  if  there  was  a  void  in  my  heart.  I  wanted  something 
to  love.  It  just  swept  me  with  a  wild  craving  for 
affection.  Somehow  the  thought  of  woman  gradually 
faded  from  my  mind.  When  I  saw  my  wife,  it  was 
just  like  a  dear  friend.  But  I  didn’t  feel  toward  her 
sexually.  One  day,  as  I  was  passing  in  the  hall,  I 
noticed  a  young  boy.  He  had  been  in  only  a  short  time, 
and  he  was  rosy-cheeked,  with  a  smooth  little  face  and 
sweet  lips — he  reminded  me  of  a  girl  I  used  to  court 
before  I  married.  After  that  I  frequently  surprised 
myself  thinking  of  the  lad.  J  felt  no  desire  toward 


438  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


him,  except  just  to  know  him  and  get  friendly.  I  became 
acquainted  with  him,  and  when  he  heard  I  was  a  med¬ 
ical  man,  he  would  often  call  to  consult  me  about  the 
stomach  trouble  he  suffered.  The  doctor  here  persisted 
in  giving  the  poor  kid  salts  and  physics  all  the  time. 
Well,  Aleck,  I  could  hardly  believe  it  myself,  but  I  grew 
so  fond  of  the  boy,  I  was  miserable  when  a  day  passed 
without  my  seeing  him.  I  would  take  big  chances  to 
get  near  him.  I  was  rangeman  then,  and  he  was 
assistant  on  a  top  tier.  We  often  had  opportunities  to 
talk.  I  got  him  interested  in  literature,  and  advised 
him  what  to  read,  for  he  didn’t  know  what  to  do  with 
his  time.  He  had  a  fine  character,  that  boy,  and  he  was 
bright  and  intelligent.  At  first  it  was  only  a  liking 
for  him,  but  it  increased  all  the  time,  till  I  couldn’t 
think  of  any  woman.  But  don’t  misunderstand  me, 
Aleck;  it  wasn’t  that  I  wanted  a  ‘kid.’  I  swear  to  you, 
the  other  youths  had  no  attraction  for  me  whatever; 
but  this  boy — his  name  was  Floyd — he  became  so  dear 
to  me,  why,  I  used  to  give  him  everything  I  could  get. 
I  had  a  friendly  guard,  and  he’d  bring  me  fruit  and 
things.  Sometimes  I’d  just  die  to  eat  it,  but  I  always 
gave  it  to  Floyd.  And,  Aleck — you  remember  when  I 
was  down  in  the  dungeon  six  days?  Well,  it  was  for 
the  sake  of  that  boy.  He  did  something,  and  I  took 
the  blame  on  myself.  And  the  last  time — they  kept 
me  nine  days  chained  up — I  hit  a  fellow  for  abusing 
Floyd :  he  was  small  and  couldn’t  defend  himself.  I 
did  not  realize  it  at  the  time,  Aleck,  but  I  know  now 
that  I  was  simply  in  love  with  the  boy;  wildly,  madly 
in  love.  It  came  very  gradually.  For  two  years  I  loved 
him  without  the  least  taint  of  sex  desire.  It  was  the 
purest  affection  I  ever  felt  in  my  life.  It  was  all- 
absorbing,  and  I  would  have  sacrificed  my  life  for  him 
if  he  had  asked  it.  But  by  degrees  the  psychic  stage 


“PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN” 


439 


began  to  manifest  all  the  expressions  of  love  between 
the  opposite  sexes.  I  remember  the  first  time  he 
kissed  me.  It  was  early  in  the  morning;  only  the  range- 
men  were  out,  and  I  stole  up  to  his  cell  to  give  him  a 
delicacy.  He  put  both  hands  between  the  bars,  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  mine.  Aleck,  I  tell  you,  never  in  my 
life  had  I  experienced  such  bliss  as  at  that  moment. 
It’s  five  years  ago,  but  it  thrills  me  every  time  I  think 
of  it.  It  came  suddenly;  I  didn’t  expect  it.  It  was 
entirely  spontaneous:  our  eyes  met,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
something  drew  us  together.  He  told  me  he  was  very 
fond  of  me.  From  then  on  we  became  lovers.  I  used 
to  neglect  my  work,  and  risk  great  danger  to  get  a 
chance  to  kiss  and  embrace  him.  I  grew  terribly  jealous, 
too,  though  I  had  no  cause.  I  passed  through  every 
phase  of  a  passionate  love.  With  this  difference,  though 
— I  felt  a  touch  of  the  old  disgust  at  the  thought  of 
actual  sex  contact.  That  I  didn’t  do.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  desecration  of  the  boy,  and  of  my  love  for  him.  But 
after  a  while  that  feeling  also  wore  off,  and  I  desired 
sexual  relation  with  him.  He  said  he  loved  me  enough 
to  do  even  that  for  me,  though  he  had  never  done  it 
before.  He  hadn’t  been  in  any  reformatory,  you  know. 
And  yet,  somehow  I  couldn’t  bring  myself  to  do  it;  I 
loved  the  lad  too  much  for  it.  Perhaps  you  will  smile, 
Aleck,  but  it  was  real,  true  love.  When  Floyd  was 
unexpectedly  transferred  to  the  other  block,  I  felt  that 
I  would  be  the  happiest  man  if  I  could  only  touch  his 
hand  again,  or  get  one  more  kiss.  You — you’re  laugh¬ 
ing?”  he  asks  abruptly,  a  touch  of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

“No,  George.  I  am  grateful  for  your  confidence.  I 
think  it  is  a  wonderful  thing;  and,  George — I  had  felt 
the  same  horror  and  disgust  at  these  things,  as  you 
did.  But  now  I  think  quite  differently  about  them.” 

“Really,  Aleck?  I’m  glad  you  say  so.  Often  I  was 


440  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


troubled — is  it  viciousness  or  what,  I  wondered;  but  I 

\ 

could  never  talk  to  any  one  about  it.  They  take  every¬ 
thing  here  in  such  a  filthy  sense.  Yet  I  knew  in  my 
heart  that  it  was  a  true,  honest  emotion.” 

“George,  I  think  it  a  very  beautiful  emotion.  Just 
as  beautiful  as  love  for  a  woman.  I  had  a  friend  here; 
his  name  was  Russell;  perhaps  you  remember  him.  I 
felt  no  physical  passion  toward  him,  but  I  think  I  loved 
him  with  all  my  heart.  His  death  was  a  most  terrible 
shock  to  me.  It  almost  drove  me  insane.” 

Silently  George  holds  out  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 


LOVE’S  DARING 

Castle  on  the  Ohio, 
Aug.  1 8,  1902. 

My  Dear  Carolus  : 

You  know  the  saying,  “Der  eine  hat  den  Beutel,  der  andere 
das  Geld.”  I  find  it  a  difficult  problem  to  keep  in  touch  with 
my  correspondents.  I  have  the  leisure,  but  theirs  is  the 
advantage  of  the  paper  supply.  Thus  runs  the  world.  But 
you,  a  most  faithful  correspondent,  have  been  neglected  a  long 
while.  Therefore  this  unexpected  sub  rosa  chance  is  for  you. 

My  dear  boy,  whatever  your  experiences  since  you  left  me, 
don’t  fashion  your  philosophy  in  the  image  of  disappointment. 
All  life  is  a  multiplied  pain;  its  highest  expressions,  love  and 
friendship,  are  sources  of  the  most  heart-breaking  sorrow.  That 
has  been  my  experience;  no  doubt,  yours  also.  And  you  are 
aware  that  here,  under  prison  conditions,  the  disappointments,  the 
grief  and  anguish,  are  so  much  more  acute,  more  bitter  and  last¬ 
ing.  What  then?  Shall  one  seal  his  emotions,  or  barricade  his 
heart?  Ah,  if  it  were  possible,  it  would  be  wiser,  some  claim. 
But  remember,  dear  Carl,  mere  wisdom  is  a  barren  life. 

I  think  it  a  natural  reaction  against  your  prison  existence 
that  you  feel  the  need  of  self-indulgence.  But  it  is  a  tempo¬ 
rary  phase,  I  hope.  You  want  to  live  and  enjoy,  you  say.  But 
surely  you  are  mistaken  to  believe  that  the  time  is  past  when 
we  cheerfully  sacrificed  all  to  the  needs  of  the  cause.  The  first 
flush  of  emotional  enthusiasm  may  have  paled,  but  in  its  place 
there  is  the  deeper  and  more  lasting  conviction  that  permeates 
one’s  whole  being.  There  come  moments  when  one  asks  him¬ 
self  the  justification  of  his  existence,  the  meaning  of  his  life. 
No  torment  is  more  excruciating  and  overwhelming  than  the 
failure  to  find  an  answer.  You  will  discover  it  neither  in  phys¬ 
ical  indulgence  nor  in  coldly  intellectual  pleasure.  Something 
more  substantial  is  needed.  In  this  regard,  life  outside  does 
not  differ  so  very  much  from  prison  existence.  The  narrower 

441 


442  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


your  horizon — the  more  absorbed  you  are  in  your  immediate 
environment,  and  dependent  upon  it — the  sooner  you  decay, 
morally  and  mentally.  You  can,  in  a  measure,  escape  the 
sordidness  of  life  only  by  living  for  something  higher. 

Perhaps  that  is  the  secret  of  my  survival.  .Wider  interests 
have  given  me  strength.  And  other  phases  there  are.  From 
your  own  experience  you  know  what  sustaining  satisfaction  is 
found  in  prison  in  the  constant  fight  for  the  feeling  of  human 
dignity,  because  of  the  constant  attempt  to  strangle  your  sense 
of  self-respect.  I  have  seen  prisoners  offer  most  desperate  re¬ 
sistance  in  defence  of  their  manhood.  On  my  part  it  has  been 
a  continuous  struggle.  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  I  was 
in  the  dungeon?  It  was  on  the  occasion  of  Comrade  Kropot¬ 
kin’s  presence  in  this  country,  during  his  last  lecture  tour.  The 
old  Warden  was  here  then;  he  informed  me  that  I  would  not> 
be  permitted  to  see  our  Grand  Old  Man.  I  had  a  tilt  with  him, 
but  I  did  not  succeed  in  procuring  a  visiting  card.  A  few  days 
later  I  received  -a  letter  from  Peter.  On  the  envelope,  under  my 
name,  was  marked,  “Political  prisoner.”  The  Warden  was 
furious.  “We  have  no  political  prisoners  in  a  free  country,” 
he  thundered,  tearing  up  the  envelope.  “But  you  have  political 
grafters,”  I  retorted.  We  argued  the  matter  heatedly,  and  I 
demanded  the  envelope.  The  Warden  insisted  that  I  apologize. 
Of  course  I  refused,  and  I  had  to  spend  three  days  in  the 
dungeon. 

There  have  been  many  changes  since  then.  Your  coming 
to  Pittsburgh  last  year,  and  the  threat  to  expose  this  place 
(they  knew  you  had  the  facts)  helped  to  bring  matters  to  a 
point.  They  assigned  me  to  a  range,  and  I  am  still  holding  the 
position.  The  new  Warden  is  treating  me  more  decently.  He 
“wants  no  trouble  with  me,”  he  told  me.  But  he  has  proved 
a  great  disappointment.  He  started  in  with  promising  reforms, 
but  gradually  he  has  fallen  into  the  old  ways.  In  some  respects 
his  regime  is  even  worse  than  the  previous  one.  He  has  intro¬ 
duced  a  system  of  “economy”  which  barely  affords  us  sufficient 
food.  The  dungeon  and  basket,  which  he  had  at  first  abolished, 
are  in  operation  again,  and  the  discipline  is  daily  becoming 
more  drastic.  The  result  is  more  brutality  and  clubbings,  more 
fights  and  cutting  affairs,  and  general  discontent.  The  new 
management  cannot  plead  ignorance,  for  the  last  4th  of  July 
the  men  gave  a  demonstration  of  the  effects  of  humane  treat- 


LOVE’S  DARING 


443 


ment.  The  Warden  had  assembled  the  inmates  in  the  chapel, 
promising  to  let  them  pass  the  day  in  the  yard,  on  condition  of 
good  behavior.  The  Inspectors  and  the  old  guards  advised 
against  it,  arguing  the  “great  risk”  of  such  a  proceeding.  But 
the  Major  decided  to  try  the  experiment.  He  put  the  men  on 
their  honor,  and  turned  them  loose  in  the  yard.  He  was  not 
disappointed;  the  day  passed  beautifully,  without  the  least  mis¬ 
hap;  there  was  not  even  a  single  report.  We  began  to  breathe 
easier,  when  presently  the  whole  system  was  reversed.  It  was 
partly  due  to  the  influence  of  the  old  officers  upon  the  Warden; 
and  the  latter  completely  lost  his  head  when  a  trusty  made 
his  escape  from  the  hospital.  It  seems  to  have  terrorized  the 
Warden  into  abandoning  all  reforms.  He  has  also  been  censured 
by  the  Inspectors  because  of  the  reduced  profits  from  the  indus¬ 
tries.  Now  the  tasks  have  been  increased,  and  even  the  sick 
and  consumptives  are  forced  to  work.  The  labor  bodies  of  the 
State  have  been  protesting  in  vain.  How  miserably  weak  is 
the  Giant  of  Toil,  because  unconscious  of  his  strength! 

The  men  are  groaning,  and  wishing  Old  Sandy  back.  In 
short,  things  are  just  as  they  were  during  your  time.  Men  and 
Wardens  may  come  and  go,  but  the  system  prevails.  More  and 
more  I  am  persuaded  of  the  great  truth :  given  authority  and 
the  opportunity  for  exploitation,  the  results  will  be  essentially 
the  same,  no  matter  what  particular  set  of  men,  or  of 
“principles,”  happens  to  be  in  the  saddle. 

Fortunately  I  am  on  the  “home  run.”  I’m  glad  you  felt 
that  the  failure  of  my  application  to  the  Superior  Court  would 
not  depress  me.  I  built  no  castles  upon  it.  Yet  I  am  glad  it 
has  been  tried.  It  was  well  to  demonstrate  once  more  that 
neither  lower  courts,  pardon  boards,  nor  higher  tribunals,  are 
interested  in  doing  justice.  My  lawyers  had  such  a  strong  case, 
from  the  legal  standpoint,  that  the  State  Pardon  Board  resorted 
to  every  possible  trick  to  avoid  the  presentation  of  it.  And 
now  the  Superior  Court  thought  it  the  better  part  of  wisdom 
to  ignore  the  argument  that  I  am  being  illegally  detained.  They 
simply  refused  the  application,  with  a  few  meaningless  phrases 
that  entirely  evade  the  question  at  issue. 

Well,  to  hell  with  them.  I  have  “2  an’  a  stump”  (stump, 
11  months)  and  I  feel  the  courage  of  perseverance.  But  I 
hope  that  the  next  legislature  will  not  repeal  the  new  commu¬ 
tation  law.  There  is  considerable  talk  of  it,  for  the  politicians 


444  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


are  angry  that  their  efforts  in  behalf  of  the  wealthy  U.  S. 
grafters  in  the  Eastern  Penitentiary  failed.  They  begrudge  the 
“common”  prisoner  the  increased  allowance  of  good  time.  How¬ 
ever,  I  shall  “make”  it.  Of  course,  you  understand  that  both 
French  leave  and  Dutch  act  are  out  of  the  question  now.  I 
have  decided  to  stay — till  I  can  walk  through  the  gates. 

In  reference  to  French  leave,  have  you  read  about  the  Biddle 
affair?  I  think  it  was  the  most  remarkable  attempt  in  the 
history  of  the  country.  Think  of  the  wife  of  the  Jail  Warden 
helping  prisoners  to  escape !  The  boys  here  were  simply  wild 
with  joy.  Every  one  hoped  they  would  make  good  their  escape, 
and  old  Sammy  told  me  he  prayed  they  shouldn’t  be  caught. 
But  all  the  bloodhounds  of  the  law  were  unchained;  the  Biddle 
boys  got  no  chance  at  all. 

The  story  is  this.  The  brothers  Biddle,  Jack  and  Ed,  and 
Walter  Dorman,  while  in  the  act  of  robbing  a  store,  killed  a 
man.  It  was  Dorman  who  fired  the  shot,  but  he  turned  State’s 
evidence.  The  State  rewards  treachery.  Dorman  escaped  the 
noose,  but  the  two  brothers  were  sentenced  to  die.  As  is 
customary,  they  were  visited  in  the  jail  by  the  “gospel  ladies,” 
among  them  the  wife  of  the  Warden.  You  probably  remember 
him — Soffel;  he  was  Deputy  Warden  when  we  were  in  the  jail, 
and  a  rat  he  was,  too.  Well,  Ed  was  a  good-looking  man, 
with  soft  manners,  and  so  forth.  Mrs.  Soffel  fell  in  love  with 
him.  It  was  mutual,  I  believe.  Now  witness  the  heroism  a 
woman  is  capable  of,  when  she  loves.  Mrs.  Soffel  determined 
to  save  the  two  brothers ;  I  understand  they  promised  her  to 
quit  their  criminal  life.  Every  day  she  would  visit  the  con¬ 
demned  men,  to  console  them.  Pretending  to  read  the  gospel, 
she  would  stand  close  to  the  doors,  to  give  them  an  opportunity 
to  saw  through  the  bars.  She  supplied  them  with  revolvers,  and 
they  agreed  to  escape  together.  Of  course,  she  could  not  go  back 
to  her  husband,  for  she  loved  Ed,  loved  him  well  enough  never 
even  to  see  her  children  again.  The  night  for  the  escape  was 
set.  The  brothers  intended  to  separate  immediately  after  the 
break,  subsequently  to  meet  together  with  Mrs.  Soffel.  But  the 
latter  insisted  on  going  with  them.  Ed  begged  her  not  to.  He 
knew  that  it  was  sheer  suicide  for  all  of  them.  '  But  she  per¬ 
sisted,  and  Ed  acquiesced,  fully  realizing  that  it  would  prove 
fatal.  Don’t  you  think  it  showed  a  noble  trait  in  the  boy? 
He  did  not  want  her  to  think  that  he  was  deserting  her.  The 


LOVE’S  DARING 


445 


escape  from  the  jail  was  made  successfully;  they  even  had 
several  hours’  start.  But  snow  had  fallen,  and  it  was  easy  to 
trace  two  men  and  a  woman  in  a  sleigh.  The  brutality  of  the 
man-hunters  is  past  belief.  When  the  detectives  came  upon  the 
boys,  they  fired  their  Winchesters  into  the  two  brothers.  Even 
when  the  wounded  were  stretched  on  the  ground,  bleeding  and 
helpless,  a  detective  emptied  his  revolver  into  Ed,  killing  him. 
Jack  died  later,  and  Mrs.  Soffel  was  placed  in  jail.  You  can 
imagine  the  savage  fury  of  the  respectable  mob.  Mrs.  Soffel 
was  denounced  by  her  husband,  and  all  the  good  Christian 
women  cried  “Unclean !”  and  clamored  for  the  punishment  of 
their  unfortunate  sister.  She  is  now  here,  serving  two  years 
for  aiding  in  the  escape.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  when  she 
came  in.  She  has  a  sympathetic  face,  that  bears  signs  of  deep 
suffering;  she  must  have  gone  through  a  terrible  ordeal.  Think 
of  the  struggle  before  she  decided  upon  the  desperate  step;  then 
the  days  and  weeks»of  anxiety,  as  the  boys  were  sawing  the  bars 
and  preparing  for  the  last  chance !  I  should  appreciate  the  love 
of  a  woman  whose  affection  is  stronger  than  the  iron  fetters 
of  convention.  In  some  ways  this  woman  reminds  me  of  the 
Girl — the  type  that  possesses  the  courage  and  strength  to  rise 
above  all  considerations  for  the  sake  of  the  man  or  the  cause 
held  dear.  How  little  the  world  understands  the  vital  forces 
of  life ! 


A. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


THE  BLOOM  OF  “THE  BARREN  STAFF” 

I 

It  is  September  the  nineteenth.  The  cell-house  is 
silent  and  gray  in  the  afternoon  dusk.  In  the  yard  the 
rain  walks  with  long  strides,  hastening  in  the  dim 
twilight,  hastening  whither  the  shadows  have  gone.  I 
stand  at  the  door,  in  reverie.  In  the  sombre  light,  I 
see  myself  led  through  the  gate  yonder, — it  was  ten 
years  ago  this  day.  The  walls  towered  menacingly  in 
the  dark,  the  iron  gripped  my  heart,  and  I  was  lost  in 
despair.  I  should  not  have  believed  then  that  I  could 
survive  the  long  years  of  misery  and  pain.  But  the 
nimble  feet  of  the  rain  patter  hopefully;  its  tears  dissi¬ 
pate  the  clouds,  and  bring  light;  and  soon  I  shall  step 
into  the  sunshine,  and  come  forth  grown  and  matured, 
as  the  world  must  have  grown  in  the  struggle  of  suffer¬ 
ing— 

“Fresh  fish !”  a  rangeman  announces,  pointing  to  the 
long  line  of  striped  men,  trudging  dejectedly  across  the 
yard,  and  stumbling  against  each  other  in  the  unaccus¬ 
tomed  lockstep.  The  door  opens,  and  Aleck  Killain,  the 
lifetimer,  motions  to  me.  He  walks  with  measured, 
even  step  along  the  hall.  Rangeman  “Coz”  and  Harry, 
my  young  assistant,  stealthily  crowd  with  him  into  my 
cell.  The  air  of  mystery  about  them  arouses  my  appre¬ 
hension. 


446 


THE  BLOOM  OF  “THE  BARREN  STAFF”  447 


“What’s  the  matter,  boys?”  I  ask. 

They  hesitate  and  glance  at  each  other,  smiling 
diffidently. 

“You  speak,  Killain,”  Harry  whispers. 

The  lifetimer  carefully  unwraps  a  little  package,  and 
I  become  aware  of  the  sweet  scent  of  flowers  perfuming 
the  cell.  The  old  prisoner  stammers  in  confusion,  as 
he  presents  me  with  a  rose,  big  and  red.  “We  swiped  it 
in  the  greenhouse,”  he  says. 

“Fer  you,  Aleck,”  Harry  adds. 

“For  your  tenth  anniversary,”  corrects  “Coz.” 
“Good  luck  to  you,  Aleck.” 

Mutely  they  grip  my  hand,  and  steal  out  of  the  cell. 

In  solitude  I  muse  over  the  touching  remembrance. 
These  men — they  are  the  shame  Society  hides  within 
the  gray  walls.  These,  and  others  like  them.  Daily 
they  come  to  be  buried  alive  in  this  grave ;  all  through 
the  long  years  they  have  been  coming,  and  the  end  is 

not  yet.  Robbed  of  joy  and  life,  their  being  is  dis¬ 

counted  in  the  economy  of  existence.  And  all  the  while 
the  world  has  been  advancing,  it  is  said ;  science  and 
philosophy,  art  and  letters,  have  made  great  strides. 
But  wherein  is  the  improvement  that  augments  misery 
and  crowds  the  prisons?  The  discovery  of  the  X-ray 

will  further  scientific  research,  I  am  told.  But  where 

is  the  X-ray  of  social  insight  that  will  discover  in  human 
understanding  and  mutual  aid  the  elements  of  true 
progress?  Deceptive  is  the  advance  that  involves  the 
ruthless  sacrifice  of  peace  and  health  and  life;  super¬ 
ficial  and  unstable  the  civilization  that  rests  upon  the 
treacherous  sands  of  strife  and  warfare.  The  progress 
of  science  and  industry,  far  from  promoting  man’s  hap¬ 
piness  and  social  harmony,  merely  accentuates  discon¬ 
tent  and  sharpens  the  contrasts.  The  knowledge  gained 


448  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


at  so  much  cost  of  suffering  and  sacrifice  bears  bitter 
fruit,  for  lack  of  wisdom  to  apply  the  lessons  learned. 
There  are  no  limits  to  the  achievements  of  man,  were 
not  humanity  divided  against  itself,  exhausting  its  best 
energies  in  sanguinary  conflict,  suicidal  and  unnecessary. 
And  these,  the  thousands  stepmothered  by  cruel  stupid¬ 
ity,  are  the  victims  castigated  by  Society  for  her  own 
folly  and  sins.  There  is  Young  Harry.  A  child  of 
the  slums,  he  has  never  known  the  touch  of  a  loving 
hand.  Motherless,  his  father  a  drunkard,  the  heavy 
arm  of  the  law  was  laid  upon  him  at  the  age  of  ten. 
From  reform  school  to  reformatory  the  social  orphan 
has  been  driven  about. — “You  know,  Aleck,”  he  says, 
“I  nev’r  had  no  real  square  meal,  to  feel  full,  you 
know;  ’cept  once,  on  Christmas,  in  de  ref.”  At  the  age 
of  nineteen,  he  has  not  seen  a  day  of  liberty  since  early 
childhood. 

Three  years  ago  he  was  transferred  to  the  peni¬ 
tentiary,  under  a  sentence  of  sixteen  years  for  an  at¬ 
tempted  escape  from  the  Morganza  reform  school,  which 
resulted  in  the  death  of  a  keeper.  The  latter  was  fore¬ 
man  in  the  tailor  shop,  in  which  Harry  was  employed 
together  with  a  number  of  other  youths.  The  officer 
had  induced  Harry  to  do  overwork,  above  the  regular 
task,  for  which  he  rewarded  the  boy  with  an  occasional 
dainty  of  buttered  bread  or  a  piece  of  corn-cake.  By 
degrees  Harry’s  voluntary  effort  became  part  of  his 
routine  work,  and  the  reward  in  delicacies  came  more 
rarely.  But  when  they  entirely  ceased  the  boy  rebelled, 
refusing  to  exert  himself  above  the  required  task.  He 
was  reported,  but  the  Superintendent  censured  the 
keeper  for  the  unauthorized  increase  of  work.  Harry 
was  elated;  but  presently  began  systematic  persecution 
that  made  the  boy’s  life  daily  more  unbearable.  In 
innumerable  ways  the  hostile  guard  sought  to  revenge 


THE  BLOOM  OF  “THE  BARREN  STAFF” 


449 


his  defeat  upon  the  lad,  till  at  last,  driven  to  desperation, 
Harry  resolved  upon  escape.  With  several  other  in¬ 
mates  the  fourteen-year-old  boy  planned  to  flee  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  there  to  hunt  the  “wild”  Indians,  and 
live  the  independent  and  care-free  life  of  Jesse  James. 
“You  know,  Aleck,”  Harry  confides  to  me,  reminis¬ 
cently,  “we  could  have  made  it  easy;  dere  was  eleven 
of  us.  But  de  kids  was  all  sore  on  de  foreman.  He 
’bused  and  beat  us,  an’  some  of  de  boys  wouldn’  go 
’cept  we  knock  de  screw  out  first.  It  was  me  pal  Nacky 
that  hit  ’im  foist,  good  an’  hard,  an’  den  I  hit  ’im, 
lightly.  But  dey  all  said  in  court  that  I  hit  ’im  both 
times.  Nacky ’s  people  had  money,  an’  he  beat  de  case, 
but  I  got  soaked  sixteen  years.”  His  eyes  fill  with  tears 
and  he  says  plaintively:  “I  haven’t  been  outside  since  I 
was  a  little  kid,  an’  now  I’m  sick,  an’  will  die  here 
mebbe.” 


II 

Conversing  in  low  tones,  we  sweep  the  range.  1 
shorten  my  strokes  to  enable  Harry  to  keep  pace. 
Weakly  he  drags  the  broom  across  the  floor.  His  ap¬ 
pearance  is  pitifully  grotesque.  The  sickly  features, 
pale  with  the  color  of  the  prison  whitewash,  resemble 
a  little  child’s.  But  the  eyes  look  oldish  in  their 
wrinkled  sockets,  the  head  painfully  out  of  proportion 
with  the  puny,  stunted  body.  Now  and  again  he  turns 
his  gaze  on  me,  and  in  his  face  there  is  melancholy 
wonder,  as  if  he  is  seeking  something  that  has  passed 
him  by.  Often  I  ponder,  Is  there  a  crime  more  appal¬ 
ling  and  heinous  than  the  one  Society  has  committed 
upon  him,  who  is  neither  man  nor  youth  and  never  was 
child?  Crushed  by  the  heel  of  brutality,  this  plant  had 
never  budded.  Yet  there  is  the  making  of  a  true  man  in 


45°  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


him.  His  mentality  is  pathetically  primitive,  but  he 
possesses  character  and  courage,  and  latent  virgin  forces. 
His  emotional  frankness  borders  on  the  incredible;  he 
is  unmoral  and  unsocial,  as  a  field  daisy  might  be,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  giant  trees,  yet  timidly  tenacious  of  its  own 
being.  It  distresses  me  to  witness  the  yearning  that 
comes  into  his  eyes  at  the  mention  of  the  “outside.” 
Often  he  asks:  “Tell  me,  Aleck,  how  does  it  feel  to 
walk  on  de  street,  to  know  that  you’re  free  t’  go  where 
you  damn  please,  wid  no  screw  to  foller  you?”  Ah, 
if  he’d  only  have  a  chance,  he  reiterates,  he’d  be  so  care¬ 
ful  not  to  get  into  trouble !  He  would  like  to  keep  com¬ 
pany  with  a  nice  girl,  he  confides,  blushingly;  he  had 
never  had  one.  But  he  fears  his  days  are  numbered.  His 
lungs  are  getting  very  bad,  and  now  that  his  father  has 
died,  he  has  no  one  to  help  him  get  a  pardon.  Perhaps 
father  wouldn’t  have  helped  him,  either;  he  was  always 
drunk,  and  never  cared  for  his  children.  “He  had  no 
business  t’  have  any  children,”  Harry  comments  pas¬ 
sionately.  And  he  can’t  expect  any  assistance  from  his 
sister ;  the  poor  girl  barely  makes  a  living  in  the  factory. 
“She’s  been  workin’  ev’r  so  long  in  the  pickle  works,” 
Harry  explains.  “That  feller,  the  boss  there,  must  be 
rich;  it’s  a  big  factory,”  he  adds,  naively,  “he  oughter 
give  ’er  enough  to  marry  on.”  But  he  fears  he  will  die 
in  the  prison.  There  is  no  one  to  aid  him,  and  he  has 
no  friends.  “I  never  had  no  friend,”  he  says,  wistfully; 
“there  ain’t  no  real  friends.  De  older  boys  in  de  ref 
always  used  me,  an’  dey  use  all  de  kids.  But  dey  was 
no  friends,  an’  every  one  was  against  me  in  de  court,  an’ 
dey  put  all  de  blame  on  me.  Everybody  was  always 
against  me,”  he  repeats  bitterly. 

Alone  in  the  cell,  I  ponder  over  his  words.  “Every¬ 
body  was  always  against  me,”  I  hear  the  boy  say.  I 


THE  BLOOM  OF  “THE  BARREN  STAFF”  45 1 


wake  at  night,  with  the  quivering  cry  in  the  darkness, 
“Everybody  against  me !”  Motherless  in  childhood, 
reared  in  the  fumes  of  brutal  inebriation,  cast  into  the 
slums  to  be  crushed  under  the  wheels  of  the  law’s  Jug¬ 
gernaut,  was  the  fate  of  this  social  orphan.  Is  this 
the  fruit  of  progress?  this  the  spirit  of  our  Christian 
civilization?  In  the  hours  of  solitude,  the  scheme  of  ex¬ 
istence  unfolds  in  kaleidoscope  before  me.  In  varie¬ 
gated  design  and  divergent  angle  it  presents  an  endless 
panorama  of  stunted  minds  and  tortured  bodies,  of 
universal  misery  and  wretchedness,  in  the  elemental  as¬ 
pect  of  the  boy’s  desolate  life.  And  I  behold  all  the 
suffering  and  agony  resolve  themselves  in  the  dominance 
of  the  established,  in  tradition  and  custom  that  heavily 
encrust  humanity,  weighing  down  the  already  fettered 
soul  till  its  wings  break  and  it  beats  helplessly  against 
the  artificial  barriers.  .  .  .  The  blanched  face  of  Misery 
is  silhouetted  against  the  night.  The  silence  sobs  with 
the  piteous  cry  of  the  crushed  boy.  And  I  hear  the 
cry,  and  it  fills  my  whole  being  with  the  sense  of  terrible 
wrong  and  injustice,  with  the  shame  of  my  kind,  that 
sheds  crocodile  tears  while  it  swallows  its  helpless  prey. 
The  submerged  moan  in  the  dark.  I  will  echo  their 
agony  to  the  ears  of  the  world.  I  have  suffered  with 
them,  I  have  looked  into  the  heart  of  Pain,  and  with  its 
voice  and  anguish  I  will  speak  to  humanity,  to  wake  it 
from  sloth  and  apathy,  and  lend  hope  to  despair. 

The  months  speed  in  preparation  for  the  great  work. 
I  must  equip  myself  for  the  mission,  for  the  combat 
with  the  world  that  struggles  so  desperately  to  defend 
its  chains.  The  day  of  my  resurrection  is  approach¬ 
ing,  and  I  will  devote  my  new  life  to  the  service  of  my 
fellow-sufferers.  The  world  shall  hear  the  tortured; 
it  shall  behold  the  shame  it  has  buried  within  these 


452  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

walls,  yet  not  eliminated.  The  ghost  of  its  crimes  shall 
rise  and  harrow  its  ears,  till  the  social  conscience  is 
roused  to  the  cry  of  its  victims.  And  perhaps  with  eyes 
once  opened,  it  will  behold  the  misery  and  suffering  in 
the  world  beyond,  and  Man  will  pause  in  his  strife  and 
mad  race  to  ask  himself,  wherefore?  whither? 


* 


CHAPTER  XLVI 


A  CHILD’S  HEART-HUNGER 

I 

With  deep  gratification  I  observe  the  unfoldment 
of  Harry’s  mind.  My  friendship  has  wakened  in  him 
hope  and  interest  in  life.  Merely  to  please  me,  he 
smilingly  reiterated,  he  would  apply  himself  to  reading 
the  mapped-out  course.  But  as  time  passed  he  became 
absorbed  in  the  studies,  developing  a  thirst  for  knowl¬ 
edge  that  is  transforming  his  primitive  intelligence  into 
a  mentality  of  great  power  and  character.  Often  I 
marvel  at  the  peculiar  strength  and  aspiration  spring¬ 
ing  from  the  depths  of  a  prison  friendship.  “I  did 
not  believe  in  friendship,  Aleck,”  Harry  says,  as  we 
ply  our  brooms  in  the  day’s  work,  “but  now  I  feel  that 
I  wouldn’t  be  here,  if  I  had  had  then  a  real  friend.  It 
isn’t  only  that  we  suffer  together,  but  you  have  made 
me  feel  that  our  minds  can  rise  above  these  rules  and 
bars.  You  know,  the  screws  have  warned  me  against 
you,  and  I  was  afraid  of  you.  I  don’t  know  how  to 
put  it,  Aleck,  but  the  first  time  we  had  that  long  talk 
last  year,  I  felt  as  if  something  walked  right  over  from 
you  to  me.  And  since  then  I  have  had  something  to 
live  for.  You  know,  I  have  seen  so  much  of  the  priests, 
I  have  no  use  for  the  church,  and  I  don’t  believe  in 
immortality.  But  the  idea  I  got  from  you  clung  to 

453 


454  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


me,  and  it  was  so  persistent,  I  really  think  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  immortality  of  an  idea.” 

For  an  instant  the  old  look  of  helpless  wonder  is 
in  his  face,  as  if  he  is  at  a  loss  to  master  the  thought. 
He  pauses  in  his  work,  his  eyes  fastened  on  mine.  “I 
got  it,  Aleck,”  he  says,  an  eager  smile  lighting  up  his 
pallid  features.  “You  remember  the  story  you  told 
me  about  them  fellers — Oh,” — he  quickly  corrects  him¬ 
self — “when  I  get  excited,  I  drop  into  my  former  bad 
English.  Well,  you  know  the  story  you  told  me  of  the 
prisoners  in  Siberia;  how  they  escape  sometimes,  and 
the  peasants,  though  forbidden  to  house  them,  put 
food  outside  of  their  huts,  so  that  an  escaped  man 
may  not  starve  to  death.  You  remember,  Aleck?” 

“Yes,  Harry.  I’m  glad  you  haven’t  forgotten  it.” 

“Forgotten?  Why,  Aleck,  a  few  weeks  ago,  sitting 
at  my  door,  I  saw  a  sparrow  hopping  about  in  the 
hall.  It  looked  cold  and  hungry.  I  threw  a  piece  of 
bread  to  it,  but  the  Warden  came  by  and  made  me  pick 
it  up,  and  drive  the  bird  away.  Somehow  I  thought 
of  the  peasants  in  Siberia,  and  how  they  share  their 
food  with  escaped  men.  Why  should  the  bird  starve  as 
long  as  I  have  bread?  Now  every  night  I  place  a 
few  pieces  near  the  door,  and  in  the  morning,  just 
when  it  begins  to  dawn,  and  every  one  is  asleep,  the 
bird  steals  up  and  gets  her  breakfast.  It’s  the  im¬ 
mortality  of  an  idea,  Aleck.” 

II 

The  inclement  winter  has  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon 
Harry.  The  foul  hot  air  of  the  cell-house  is  aggravat¬ 
ing  his  complaint,  and  now  the  physician  has  pro¬ 
nounced  him  in  an  advanced  stage  of  consumption. 
The  disease  is  ravaging  the  population.  Hygienic  rules 


A  CHILD’S  HEART-HUNGER 


455 


are  ignored,  and  no  precautions  are  taken  against  con¬ 
tagion.  Harry’s  health  is  fast  failing.  He  walks  with 
an  evident  effort,  but  bravely  straightens  as  he  meets  my 
gaze.  “I  feel  quite  strong,  Aleck,”  he  says,  “I  don’t  be¬ 
lieve  it’s  the  con.  It’s  just  a  bad  cold.” 

He  clings  tenaciously  to  the  slender  hope;  but  now 
and  then  the  cunning  of  suspicion  tests  my  faith.  Pre¬ 
tending  to  wash  his  hands,  he  asks :  “Can  I  use  your 
towel,  Aleck?  Sure  you’re  not  afraid?”  My  apparent 
confidence  seems  to  allay  his  fears,  and  he  visibly  rallies 
with  renewed  hope.  I  strive  to  lighten  his  work  on  the 
range,  and  his  friend  “Coz,”  who  attends  the  officers’ 
table,  shares  with  the  sick  boy  the  scraps  of  fruit  and 
cake  left  after  their  meals.  The  kind-hearted  Italian, 
serving  a  sentence  of  twenty  years,  spends  his  leisure 
weaving  hair  chains  in  the  dim  light  of  the  cell,  and  in¬ 
vests  the  proceeds  in  warm  underwear  for  his  consump¬ 
tive  friend.  “I  don’t  need  it  myself,  I’m  too  hot-blooded, 
anyhow,”  he  lightly  waves  aside  Harry’s  objections.  He 
shudders  as  the  hollow  cough  shakes  the  feeble  frame, 
and  anxiously  hovers  over  the  boy,  mothering  him  with 
unobtrusive  tenderness. 

At  the  first  sign  of  spring,  “Coz”  conspires  with  me 
to  procure  for  Harry  the  privilege  of  the  yard.  The 
consumptives  are  deprived  of  air,  immured  in  the  shop 
or  block,  and  in  the  evening  locked  in  the  cells.  In 
view  of  my  long  service  and  the  shortness  of  my  remain¬ 
ing  time,  the  Inspectors  have  promised  me  fifteen  min¬ 
utes’  exercise  in  the  yard.  I  have  not  touched  the  soil 
since  the  discovery  of  the  tunnel,  in  July  1900,  almost 
four  years  ago.  But  Harry  is  in  greater  need  of  fresh 
air,  and  perhaps  we  shall  be  able  to  procure  the  privilege 
for  him,  instead.  His  health  would  improve,  and  in  the 
meantime  we  will  bring  his  case  before  the  Pardon 


456  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 

I 

Board.  It  was  an  outrage  to  send  him  to  the  peniten¬ 
tiary,  “Coz”  asserts  vehemently.  “Harry  was  barely 
fourteen  then,  a  mere  child.  Think  of  a  judge  who  will 
give  such  a  kid  sixteen  years !  Why,  it  means  death.  But 
what  can  you  expect !  Remember  the  little  boy  who  was 
sent  here — it  was  somewhere  around  ’97 — he  was  just 
twelve  years  old,  and  he  didn’t  look  more  than  ten.  They 
brought  him  here  in  knickerbockers,  and  the  fellows  had 
to  bend  over  double  to  keep  in  lockstep  with  him.  He 
looked  just  like  a  baby  in  the  line.  The  first  pair  of 
long  pants  he  ever  put  on  was  stripes,  and  he  was  so 
frightened,  he’d  stand  at  the  door  and  cry  all  the  time. 
Well,  they  got  ashamed  of  themselves  after  a  while, 
and  sent  him  away  to  some  reformatory,  but  he  spent 
about  six  months  here  then.  Oh,  what’s  the  use  talk¬ 
ing,”  “Coz”  concludes  hopelessly;  “it’s  a  rotten  world  all 
right.  But  may  be  we  can  get  Harry  a  pardon.  Honest, 
Aleck,  I  feel  as  if  he’s  my  own  child.  We’ve  been 
friends  since  the  day  he  came  in,  and  he’s  a  good  boy, 
only  he  never  had  a  chance.  Make  a  list,  Aleck.  I’ll  ask 
the  Chaplain  how  much  I’ve  got  in  the  office.  I  think 
it’s  twenty-two  or  may  be  twenty-three  dollars.  It’s  all 
for  Harry.” 

The  spring  warms  into  summer  before  the  dime  and 
quarter  donations  total  the  amount  required  by  the  at¬ 
torney  to  carry  Harry’s  case  to  the  Pardon  Board.  But 
the  sick  boy  is  missing  from  the  range.  For  weeks  his 
dry,  hacking  cough  resounded  in  the  night,  keeping  the 
men  awake,  till  at  last  the  doctor  ordered  him  transferred 
to  the  hospital.  His  place  on  the  range  has  been  taken 
by  “Big  Swede,”  a  tall,  sallow-faced  man  who  shuffles 
along  the  hall,  moaning  in  pain.  The  passing  guards 
mimic  him,  and  poke  him  jocularly  in  the  ribs.  “Hey, 
you!  Get  a  move  on,  and  quit  your  shammin’.”  He 


A  CHILD’S  HEART-HUNGER 


4 


45  7 


starts  in  affright;  pressing  both  hands  against  his  side, 
he  shrinks  at  the  officer’s  touch.  “You  fakir,  we’re  next 
to  you,  all  right.”  An  uncomprehending,  sickly  smile 
spreads  over  the  sere  face,  as  he  murmurs  plaintively, 
“Yis,  sir,  me  seek,  very  seek.” 


CHAPTER  XLVII 


CHUM 

I 

The  able-bodied  men  have  been  withdrawn  to  the 
shops,  and  only  the  old  and  decrepit  remain  in  the  cell- 
house.  But  even  the  light  duties  of  assistant  prove  too 
difficult  for  the  Swede.  The  guards  insist  that  he  is 
shamming.  Every  night  he  is  placed  in  a  strait- jacket, 
and  gagged  to  stifle  his  groans.  I  protest  against  the 
mistreatment,  and  am  cited  to  the  office.  The  Deputy’s 
desk  is  occupied  by  “Bighead,”  the  officer  of  the  hosiery 
department,  now  promoted  to  the  position  of  Second 
Assistant  Deputy.  He  greets  me  with  a  malicious  grin. 
“I  knew  you  wouldn’t  behave,”  he  chuckles;  “know  you 
too  damn  well  from  the  stockin’  shop.” 

The  gigantic  Colonel,  the  new  Deputy,  loose- jointed 
and  broad,  strolls  in  with  long,  swinging  step.  He 
glances  over  the  report  against  me.  “Is  that  all  ?”  he  in¬ 
quires  of  the  guard,  in  cold,  impassive  voice. 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Go  back  to  your  work,  Berkman.” 

But  in  the  afternoon,  Officer  “Bighead”  struts  into 
the  cell-house,  in  charge  of  the  barber  gang.  As  I  take 
my  turn  in  the  first  chair,  the  guard  hastens  toward  me. 
“Get  out  of  that  chair,”  he  commands.  “It  ain’t  your 
turn.  You  take  that  chair,”  pointing  toward  the  second 
barber,  a  former  boilermaker,  dreaded  by  the  men  as  a 
“butcher.” 


458 


CHUM 


459 


“It  is  my  turn  in  this  chair,”  I  reply,  keeping  my 
seat. 

“Dat  so,  Mr.  Officer,”  the  negro  barber  chimes  in. 

“Shut  up !”  the  officer  bellows.  “Will  you  get  out  of 
that  chair?”  He  advances  toward  me  threateningly. 

“I  won’t,”  I  retort,  looking  him  squarely  in  the  eye. 

Suppressed  giggling  passes  along  the  waiting  line. 
The  keeper  turns  purple,  and  strides  toward  the  office 
to  report  me. 


II 

“This  is  awful,  Aleck.  I’m  so  sorry  you’re  locked 
up.  You  were  in  the  right,  too,”  “Coz”  whispers  at  my 
cell.  “But  never  min’,  old  boy,”  he  smiles  reassuringly, 
“you  can  count  on  me,  all  right.  And  you’ve  got  other 
friends.  Here’s  a  stiff  some  one  sends  you.  He  wants 
an  answer  right  away.  I’ll  call  for  it.” 

The  note  mystifies  me.  The  large,  bold  writing  is 
unfamiliar;  I  cannot  identify  the  signature,  “Jim  M.” 
The  contents  are  puzzling.  His  sympathies  are  with  me, 
the  writer  says.  He  has  learned  all  the  details  of  the 
trouble,  and  feels  that  I  acted  in  the  defence  of  my 
rights.  It  is  an  outrage  to  lock  me  up  for  resenting 
undeserved  humiliation  at  the  hands  of  an  unfriendly 
guard;  and  he  cannot  bear  to  see  me  thus  persecuted. 
My  time  is  short,  and  the  present  trouble,  if  not  cor¬ 
rected,  may  cause  the  loss  of  my  commutation.  He  will 
immediately  appeal  to  the  Warden  to  do  me  justice;  but 
he  should  like  to  hear  from  me  before  taking  action. 

I  wonder  at  the  identity  of  the  writer.  Evidently  not 
a  prisoner;  intercession  with  the  Warden  would  be  out 
of  the  question.  Yet  I  cannot  account  for  any  officer 
who  would  take  this  attitude,  or  employ  such  means  of 
communicating  with  me. 


460  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


Presently  “Coz”  saunters  past  the  cell.  “Got  your 
answer  ready?”  he  whispers. 

“Who  gave  you  the  note,  Coz?” 

“I  don’t  know  if  I  should  tell  you.” 

“Of  course  you  must  tell  me.  I  won’t  answer  this 
note  unless  I  know  to  whom  I  am  writing.” 

“Well,  Aleck,”  he  hesitates,  “he  didn’t  say  if  I  may 
tell  you.” 

“Then  better  go  and  ask  him  first.” 

Considerable  time  elapses  before  “Coz”  returns. 
From  the  delay  I  judge  that  the  man  is  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  institution,  or  not  easily  accessible.  At  last 
the  kindly  face  of  the  Italian  appears  at  the  cell. 

“It’s  all  right,  Aleck,”  he  says. 

“Who  is  he?”  I  ask  impatiently. 

“I’ll  bet  you’ll  never  guess.” 

“Tell  me,  then.” 

“Well,  I’ll  tell  you.  He  is  not  a  screw.” 

“Can’t  be  a  prisoner?” 

“No.” 

“Who,  then  ?” 

“He  is  a  fine  fellow,  Aleck.” 

“Come  now,  tell  me.” 

“He  is  a  citizen.  The  foreman  of  the  new  shop.” 

“The  weaving  department?” 

“That’s  the  man.  Here’s  another  stiff  from  him. 
Answer  at  once.” 


Ill 


Dear  Mr.  J.  M. : 

I  hardly  know  how  to  write  to  you.  It  is  the  most 
remarkable  thing  that  has  happened  to  me  in  all  the  years 
of  my  confinement.  To  think  that  you,  a  perfect  stranger 
— and  not  a  prisoner,  at  that — should  offer  to  intercede  in 


CHUM 


461 


my  behalf  because  you  feel  that  an  injustice  has  been  done! 
It  is  almost  incredible,  but  “Coz”  has  informed  me  that 
you  are  determined  to  see  the  Warden  in  this  matter.  I 
assure  you  I  appreciate  your  sense  of  justice  more  than  I 
can  express  it.  But  I  most  urgently  request  you  not  to 
carry  out  your  plan.  With  the  best  of  intentions,  your 
intercession  will  prove  disastrous,  to  yourself  as  well  as 
to  me.  A  shop  foreman,  you  are  not  supposed  to  know 
what  is  happening  in  the  block.  The  Warden  is  a  martinet, 
and  extremely  vain  of  his  authority.  He  will  resent  your 
interference.  I  don’t  know  who  you  are,  but  your  indig¬ 
nation  at  what  you  believe  an  injustice  characterizes  you 
as  a  man  of  principle,  and  you  are  evidently  inclined  to  be 
friendly  toward  me.  I  should  be  very  unhappy  to  be  the 
cause  of  your  discharge.  You  need  your  job,  or  you  would 
not  be  here.  I  am  very,  very  thankful  to  you,  but  I  urge 
you  most  earnestly  to  drop  the  matter.  I  must  fight  my 
own  battles.  Moreover,  the  situation  is  not  very  serious, 
and  I  shall  come  out  all  right. 

With  much  appreciation, 

A.  B. 


Dear  Mr.  M. : 

I  feel  much  relieved  by  your  promise  to  accede  to  my 
request.  It  is  best  so.  You  need  not  worry  about  me.  I 
expect  to  receive  a  hearing  before  the  Deputy,  and  he 
seems  a  decent  chap.  You  will  pardon  me  when  I  confess 
that  I  smiled  at  your  question  whether  your  correspondence 
is  welcome.  Your  notes  are  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  dark¬ 
ness,  and  I  am  intensely  interested  in  the  personality  of  a 
man  whose  sense  of  justice  transcends  considerations  of 
personal  interest.  You  know,  no  great  heroism  is  required 
to  demand  justice  for  oneself,  in  the  furtherance  of  our 
own  advantage.  But  where  the  other  fellow  is  concerned, 
especially  a  stranger,  it  becomes  a  question  of  “abstract” 
justice — and  but  few  people  possess  the  manhood  to  jeopard¬ 
ize  their  reputation  or  comfort  for  that. 

Since  our  correspondence  began,  I  have  had  occasion  to 
speak  to  some  of  the  men  in  your  charge.  I  want  to  thank 


462  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


you  in  their  name  for  your  considerate  and  humane  treat¬ 
ment  of  them. 

“Coz”  is  at  the  door,  and  I  must  hurry.  Trust  no  one 
with  notes,  except  him.  We  have  been  friends  for  years, 
and  he  can  tell  you  all  you  wish  to  know  about  my  life 
here. 

Cordially, 

B. 


My  Dear  M. : 

There  is  no  need  whatever  for  your  anxiety  regarding 
the  effects  of  the  solitary  upon  me.  I  do  not  think  they 
will  keep  me  in  long;  at  any  rate,  remember  that  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  intercede. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  know  that  my  friend  Harry 
shows  signs  of  improvement,  thanks  to  your  generosity. 
“Coz”  has  managed  to  deliver  to  him  the  tid-bits  and  wine 
you  sent.  You  know  the  story  of  the  boy.  He  has  never 
known  the  love  of  a  mother,  nor  the  care  of  a  father. 
A  typical  child  of  the  disinherited,  he  was  thrown,  almost 
in  infancy,  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  the  world.  At  the 
age  of  ten  the  law  declared  him  a  criminal.  He  has  never 
since  seen  a  day  of  liberty.  At  twenty  he  is  dying  of  prison 
consumption.  Was  the  Spanish  Inquisition  ever  guilty  of 
such  organized  child  murder?  With  desperate  will-power 
he  clutches  at  life,  in  the  hope  of  a  pardon.  He  is  firmly 
convinced  that  fresh  air  would  cure  him,  but  the  new  rules 
confine  him  to  the  hospital.  His  friends  here  have  collected 
a  fund  to  bring  his  case  before  the  Pardon  Board;  it  is 
to  be  heard  next  month.  That  devoted  soul,  “Coz,”  has 
induced  the  doctor  to  issue  a  certificate  of  Harry’s  critical 
condition,  and  he  may  be  released  soon.  I  have  grown  very 
fond  of  the  boy  so  much  sinned  against.  I  have  watched  his 
heart  and  mind  blossom  in  the  sunshine  of  a  little  kindness, 
and  now — I  hope  that  at  least  his  last  wish  will  be  gratified : 
just  once  to  walk  on  the  street,  and  not  hear  the  harsh 
command  of  the  guard.  He  begs  me  to  express  to  his 
unknown  friend  his  deepest  gratitude. 


B. 


CHUM 


463 


Dear  M. : 

The  Deputy  has  just  released  me.  I  am  happy  with  a 
double  happiness,  for  I  know  how  pleased  you  will  be  at 
the  good  turn  of  affairs.  It  is  probably  due  to  the  fact 
that  my  neighbor,  the  Big  Swede — you’ve  heard  about  him — 
was  found  dead  in  the  strait-jacket  this  morning.  The  doc¬ 
tor  and  officers  all  along  pretended  that  he  was  shamming. 
It  was  a  most  cruel  murder ;  by  the  Warden’s  order  the  sick 
Swede  was  kept  gagged  and  bound  every  night.  I  under¬ 
stand  that  the  Deputy  opposed  such  brutal  methods,  and 
now  it  is  rumored  that  he  intends  to  resign.  But  I  hope  he 
will  remain.  There  is  something  big  and  broad-minded  about 
the  gigantic  Colonel.  He  tries  to  be  fair,  and  he  has  saved 
many  a  prisoner  from  the  cruelty  of  the  Major.  The  latter 
is  continually  inventing  new  modes  of  punishment;  it  is  char¬ 
acteristic  that  his  methods  involve  curtailment  of  rations, 
and  consequent  saving,  which  is  not  accounted  for  on  the 
books.  He  has  recently  cut  the  milk  allowance  of  the 
hospital  patients,  notwithstanding  the  protests  of  the  doctor. 
He  has  also  introduced  severe  punishment  for  talking.  You 
know,  when  you  have  not  uttered  a  word  for  days  and 
weeks,  you  are  often  seized  with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
give  vent  to  your  feelings.  These  infractions  of  the  rules 
are  now  punished  by  depriving  you  of  tobacco  and  of  your 
Sunday  dinner.  Every  Sunday  from  30  to  50  men  are  locked 
up  on  the  top  range,  to  remain  without  food  all  day.  The 
system  is  called  “Killicure”  (kill  or  cure)  and  it  involves 
considerable  graft,  for  I  know  numbers  of  men  who  have 
not  received  tobacco  or  a  Sunday  dinner  for  months. 

Warden  Wm.  Johnston  seems  innately  cruel.  Recently  he 
introduced  the  “blind”  cell, — door  covered  with  solid  sheet 
iron.  It  is  much  worse  than  the  basket  cell,  for  it  virtually  1 
admits  no  air,  and  men  are  kept  in  it  from  30  to  60  days. 
Prisoner  Varnell  was  locked  up  in  such  a  cell  79  days,  be¬ 
coming  paralyzed.  But  even  worse  than  these  punishments 
is  the  more  refined  brutality  of  torturing  the  boys  with  the 
uncertainty  of  release  and  the  increasing  deprivation  of  good 
time.  This  system  is  developing  insanity  to  an  alarming 
extent. 

Amid  all  this  heartlessness  and  cruelty,  the  Chaplain 
is  a  refreshing  oasis  of  humanity.  I  noticed  in  one  of  your 


464  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


* 


A 


letters  the  expression,  “because  of  economic  necessity,”  and 
— I  wondered.  To  be  sure,  the  effects  of  economic  causes 
are  not  to  be  underestimated.  But  the  extremists  of  the 
materialistic  conception  discount  character,  and  thus  help  to 
vitiate  it.  The  factor  of  personality  is  too  often  ignored 
by  them.  Take  the  Chaplain,  for  instance.  In  spite  of  the 
surrounding  swamp  of  cupidity  and  brutality,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  all  disappointment  and  ingratitude,  he  is  to-day,  after 
30  years  of  incumbency,  as  full  of  faith  in  human  nature 
and  as  sympathetic  and  helpful,  as  years  ago.  He  has  had  to 
contend  against  the  various  administrations,  and  he  is  a 
poor  man;  necessity  has  not  stifled  his  innate  kindness. 

And  this  is  why  I  wondered.  “Economic  necessity” — 
has  Socialism  pierced  the  prison  walls? 

B. 


Dear,  Dear  Comrade: 

Can  you  realize  how  your  words,  “I  am  socialistically 
inclined,”  warmed  my  heart?  I  wish  I  could  express  to  you 
all  the  intensity  of  what  I  feel,  my  dear  friend  and  comrade. 
To  have  so  unexpectedly  found  both  in  you,  unutterably 
lightens  this  miserable  existence.  What  matter  that  you 
do  not  entirely  share  my  views, — we  are  comrades  in  the 
common  cause  of  human  emancipation.  It  was  indeed  well 
worth  while  getting  in  trouble  to  have  found  you,  dear 
friend.  Surely  I  have  good  cause  to  be  content,  even  happy. 
Your  friendship  is  a  source  of  great  strength,  and  I  feel 
equal  to  struggling  through  the  ten  months,  encouraged  and 
inspired  by  your  comradeship  and  devotion.  Every  evening 
I  cross  the  date  off  my  calendar,  joyous  with  the  thought 
that  I  am  a  day  nearer  to  the  precious  moment  when  I  shall 
turn  my  back  upon  these  walls,  to  join  my  friends  in  the 
great  work,  and  to  meet  you,  dear  Chum,  face  to  face,  to 
grip  your  hand  and  salute  you,  my  friend  and  comrade ! 

Most  fraternally, 


Alex. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 


LAST  DAYS 


On  the  Homestretch, 

Sub  Rosa,  April  15,  1905. 

My  Dear  Girl  : 

The  last  spring  is  here,  and  a  song  is  in  my  heart.  Only 
three  more  months,  and  I  shall  have  settled  accounts  with  Father 
Penn.  There  is  the  year  in  the  workhouse,  of  course,  and 
that  prison,  I  am  told,  is  even  a  worse  hell  than  this  one.  But 
I  feel  strong  with  the  suffering  that  is  past,  and  perhaps 
even  more  so  with  the  wonderful  jewel  I  have  found.  The  man 
I  mentioned  in  former  letters  has  proved  a  most  beautiful  soul 
and  sincere  friend.  In  every  possible  way  he  has  been  trying 
to  make  my  existence  more  endurable.  With  what  little  he  may, 
he  says,  he  wants  to  make  amends  for  the  injustice  and  brutal¬ 
ity  of  society.  He  is  a  Socialist,  with  a  broad  outlook  upon 
life.  Our  lengthy  discussions  (per  notes)  afford  me  many 
moments  of  pleasure  and  joy. 

It  is  chiefly  to  his  exertions  that  I  shall  owe  my  commuta¬ 
tion  time.  The  sentiment  of  the  Inspectors  was  not  favorable. 
I  believe  it  was  intended  to  deprive  me  of  two  years’  good  time. 
Think  what  it  would  mean  to  us !  But  my  friend — my  dear 
Chum,  as  I  affectionately  call  him — has  quietly  but  persistently 
been  at  work,  with  the  result  that  the  Inspectors  have  “seen 
the  light.”  It  is  now  definite  that  I  shall  be  released  in  July. 
The  date  is  still  uncertain.  I  can  barely  realize  that  I  am  soon 
to  leave  this  place.  The  anxiety  and  restlessness  of  the  last 
month  would  be  almost  unbearable,  but  for  the  soothing  presence 
of  my  devoted  friend.  I  hope  some  day  you  will  meet  him, — 
perhaps  even  soon,  for  he  is  not  of  the  quality  that  can  long 
remain  a  helpless  witness  of  the  torture  of  men.  He  wants  to 
work  in  the  broader  field,  where  he  may  join  hands  with  those 

465 


466  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


who  strive  to  reconstruct  the  conditions  that  are  bulwarked 
with  prison  bars. 

But  while  necessity  forces  him  to  remain  here,  his  char¬ 
acter  is  in  evidence.  He  devotes  his  time  and  means  to  lighten¬ 
ing  the  burden  of  the  prisoners.  His  generous  interest  kept 
my  sick  friend  Harry  alive,  in  the  hope  of  a  pardon.  You  will 
be  saddened  to  hear  that  the  Board  refused  to  release  him,  on 
the  ground  that  he  was  not  “sufficiently  ill.”  The  poor  boy,  who 
had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  a  guard  since  he  was  a  child  of 
ten,  died  a  week  after  the  pardon  was  refused. 

But  though  my  Chum  could  not  give  freedom  to  Harry,  he 
was  instrumental  in  saving  another  young  life  from  the  hands  of 
the  hangman.  It  was  the  case  of  young  Paul,  typical  of  prison 
as  the  nursery  of  crime.  The  youth  was  forced  to  work  along¬ 
side  of  a  man  who  persecuted  and  abused  him  because  he  re¬ 
sented  improper  advances.  Repeatedly  Paul  begged  the  Warden 
to  transfer  him  to  another  department;  but  his  appeals  were 
ignored.  The  two  prisoners  worked  in  the  bakery.  Early  one 
morning,  left  alone,  the  man  attempted  to  violate  the  boy.  In 
the  struggle  that  followed  the  former  was  killed.  The  prison 
management  was  determined  to  hang  the  lad,  “in  the  interests 
of  discipline.”  The  officers  openly  avowed  they  would  “fix  his 
clock.”  Permission  for  a  collection,  to  engage  an  attorney  for 
Paul,  was  refused.  Prisoners  who  spoke  in  his  behalf  were 
severely  punished;  the  boy  was  completely  isolated  preparatory 
to  his  trial.  He  stood  absolutely  helpless,  alone.  But  the 
dear  Chum  came  to  the  rescue  of  Paul.  The  work  had  to  be 
done  secretly,  and  it  was  a  most  difficult  task  to  secure  witnesses 
for  the  defence  among  the  prisoners  terrorized  by  the  guards. 
But  Chum  threw  himself  into  the  work  with  heart  and  soul. 
Day  and  night  he  labored  to  give  the  boy  a  chance  for  his  life. 
He  almost  broke  down  before  the  ordeal  was  over.  But  the 
boy  was  saved;  the  jury  acquitted  him  on  the  ground  of  self- 
defence. 

The  proximity  of  release,  if  only  to  change  cells,  is  nerve- 
racking  in  the  extreme.  But  even  the  mere  change  will  be  a 
relief.  Meanwhile  my  faithful  friend  does  everything  in  his 
power  to  help  me  bear  the  strain.  Besides  ministering  to  my 
physical  comforts,  he  generously  supplies  me  with  books  and 
publications.  It  helps  to  while  away  the  leaden-heeled  days, 
and  keeps  me  abreast  of  the  world’s  work.  The  Chum  is 


LAST  DAYS 


467 


enthusiastic  over  the  growing  strength  of  Socialism,  and  we 
often  discuss  the  subject  with  much  vigor.  It  appears  to  me, 
^however,  that  the  Socialist  anxiety  for  success  is  by  degrees 
^perverting  essential  principles.  It  is  with  much  sorrow  I  have 
learned  that  political  activity,  formerly  viewed  merely  as  a 
K  means  of  spreading  Socialist  ideas,  has  gradually  become  an 
/  end  in  itself.  Straining  for  political  power  weakens  the  fibres 
-  of  character  and  ideals.  Daily  contact  with  authority  has 
J  strengthened  my  conviction  that  control  of  the  governmental 
r  power  is  an  illusory  remedy  for  social  evils.  Inevitable  con- 
s  sequences  of  false  conceptions  are  not  to  be  legislated  out  of 
A  existence.  It  is  not  merely  the  conditions,  but  the  fundamental 
‘  ideas  of  present  civilization,  that  are  to  be  transvalued,  to  give 
place  to  new  social  and  individual  relations.  The  emancipation 

;of  labor  is  the  necessary  first  step  along  the  road  of  a  regen¬ 
erated  humanity ;  but  even  that  can  be  accomplished  only  through 
the  awakened  consciousness  of  the  toilers,  acting  on  their  own 
initiative  and  strength. 

On  these  and  other  points  Chum  differs  with  me,  but  his 
intense  friendship  knows  no  intellectual  distinctions.  He  is  to 
visit  you  during  his  August  vacation.  I  know  you  will  make 
him  feel  my  gratitude,  for  I  can  never  repay  his  boundless 
devotion. 

Sasha. 


Dearest  Chum  : 

It  seemed  as  if  all  aspiration  and  hope  suddenly  went  out 
of  my  life  when  you  disappeared  so  mysteriously.  I  was  tor¬ 
mented  by  the  fear  of  some  disaster.  Your  return  has  filled 
me  with  joy,  and  I  am  happy  to  know  that  you  heard  and 
responded  unhestitatingly  to  the  call  of  a  sacred  cause. 

I  greatly  envy  your  activity  in  the  P.  circle.  The  revolution 
in  Russia  has  stirred  me  to  the  very  depths.  The  giant  is  awak¬ 
ening,  the  mute  giant  that  has  suffered  so  patiently,  voicing  his 
misery  and  agony  only  in  the  anguish-laden  song  and  on  the 
pages  of  his  Gorkys. 

Dear  friend,  you  remember  our  discussion  regarding  Plehve. 
I  may  have  been  in  error  when  I  expressed  the  view  that  the 
execution  of  the  monster,  encouraging  sign  of  individual  revolu- 


468  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


tionary  activity  as  it  was,  could  not  be  regarded  as  a  manifesta¬ 
tion  of  social  awakening.  But  the  present  uprising  undoubtedly 
points  to  widespread  rebellion  permeating  Russian  life.  Yet 
it  would  probably  be  too  optimistic  to  hope  for  a  very  radical 
change.  I  have  been  absent  from  my  native  land  for  many 
years;  but  in  my  youth  I  was  close  to  the  life  and  thought  of 
the  peasant.  Large,  heavy  bodies  move  slowly.  The  proletariat 
of  the  cities  has  surely  become  impregnated  with  revolutionary' 
ideas,  but  the  vital  element  of  Russia  is  the  agrarian  population.^ 
I  fear,  moreover,  that  the  dominant  reaction  is  still  very  strong, 
though  it  has  no  doubt  been  somewhat  weakened  by  the  dis¬ 
content  manifesting  in  the  army  and,  especially,  in  the  navy. 
With  all  my  heart  I  hope  that  the  revolution  will  be  successful. 
Perhaps  a  constitution  is  the  most  we  can  expect.  But  what¬ 
ever  the  result,  the  bare  fact  of  a  revolution  in  long-suffering 
Russia  is  a  tremendous  inspiration.  I  should  be  the  happiest 
of  men  to  join  in  the  glorious  struggle. 

Long  live  the  Revolution! 

A. 


Dear  Chum: 

Thanks  for  your  kind  offer.  But  I  am  absolutely  opposed 
to  having  any  steps  taken  to  eliminate  the  workhouse  sentence. 
I  have  served  these  many  years  and  I  shall  survive  one  more. 
I  will  ask  no  favors  of  the  enemy.  They  will  even  twist  their 
own  law  to  deprive  me  of  the  five  months’  good  time,  to  which 
I  am  entitled  on  the  last  year.  I  understand  that  I  shall  be 
allowed  only  two  months  off,  on  the  preposterous  ground  that 
the  workhouse  term  constitutes  the  first  year  of  a  new  sentence! 
But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  trouble  about  the  matter.  You  have 
more  important  work  to  do.  Give  all  your  energies  to  the  good 
cause.  Prepare-  the  field  for  the  mission  of  Tchaikovsky  and 
Babushka,  and  I  shall  be  with  you  in  spirit  when  you  embrace 
our  brave  comrades  of  the  Russian  Revolution,  whose  dear  names 
were  a  hallowed  treasure  of  my  youth. 

May  success  reward  the  efforts  of  our  brothers  in  Russia. 

A. 


LAST  DAYS 


469 


Chum  : 

Just  got  word  from  the  Deputy  that  my  papers  are  signed. 
I  didn’t  wish  to  cause  you  anxiety,  but  I  was  apprehensive  of 
some  hitch.  But  it’s  positive  and  settled  now, — I  go  out  on  the 
19th.  Just  one  more  week !  This  is  the  happiest  day  in  thirteen 
years.  Shake,  Comrade. 

A. 


Dearest  Chum  : 

My  hand  trembles  as  I  write  this  last  good-bye.  I’ll  be 
gone  in  an  hour.  My  heart  is  too  full  for  words.  Please  send 
enclosed  notes  to  my  friends,  and  embrace  them  all  as  I  em¬ 
brace  you  now.  I  shall  live  in  the  hope  of  meeting  you  all  next 
year.  Good-bye,  dear,  devoted  friend. 

With  my  whole  heart, 

Your  Comrade  and  Chum. 


July  19,  1905. 


Dearest  Girl: 

It’s  Wednesday  morning,  the  19th,  at  last! 


Geh  stiller  meines  Herzens  Schlag 

Und  schliesst  euch  alle  meine  alten  Wunden, 
Denn  dieses  ist  mein  letzter  Tag 

Und  dies  sind  seine  letzten  Stunden. 


My  last  thoughts  within  these  walls  are  of  you,  my  dear, 
dear  Sonya,  the  Immutable! 


Sasha. 


PART  m 


THE  WORKHOUSE 


THE  WORKHOUSE 


I 

The  gates  of  the  penitentiary  open  to  leave  me  out, 
and  I  pause  involuntarily  at  the  fascinating  sight.  It 
is  a  street:  a  line  of  houses  stretches  before  me;  a 
woman,  young  and  wonderfully  sweet-faced,  is  passing 
on  the  opposite  side.  My  eyes  follow  her  graceful  lines, 
as  she  turns  the  corner.  Men  stand  about.  They  wear 
citizen  clothes,  and  scan  me  with  curious,  insistent  gaze. 
.  .  .  The  handcuff  grows  taut  on  my  wrist,  and  I  follow 
the  sheriff  into  the  waiting  carriage.  A  little  child  runs 
by.  I  lean  out  of  the  window  to  look  at  the  rosy- 
cheeked,  strangely  youthful  face.  But  the  guard  im¬ 
patiently  lowers  the  blind,  and  we  sit  in  gloomy  silence. 

The  spell  of  the  civilian  garb  is  upon  me.  It  gives  an 
exhilarating  sense  of  manhood.  Again  and  again  I 
glance  at  my  clothes,  and  verify  the  numerous  pockets 
to  reassure  myself  of  the  reality  of  the  situation.  I  am 
free,  past  the  dismal  gray  walls!  Free?  Yet  even  now 
captive  of  the  law.  The  law !  .  .  . 

The  engine  puffs  and  shrieks,  and  my  mind  speeds 
back  to  another  journey.  It  was  thirteen  years  and  one 
week  ago  this  day.  On  the  wings  of  an  all-absorbing 
love  I  hastened  to  join  the  struggle  of  the  oppressed 
people.  I  left  home  and  friends,  sacrificed  liberty,  and 
risked  life.  But  human  justice  is  blind:  it  will  not  see 
the  soul  on  fire.  Only  the  shot  was  heard,  by  the  Law 

473 


474  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


that  is  deaf  to  the  agony  of  Toil.  “Vengeance  is  mine,” 
it  saith.  To  the  uttermost  drop  it  will  shed  the  blood 
to  exact  its  full  pound  of  flesh.  Twelve  years  and  ten 
months!  And  still  another  year.  What  horrors  await 
me  at  the  new  prison?  Poor,  faithful  “Horsethief”  will 
nevermore  smile  his  greeting:  he  did  not  survive  six 
months  in  the  terrible  workhouse.  But  my  spirit  is 
strong;  I  shall  not  be  daunted.  This  garb  is  the  visible, 
tangible  token  of  resurrection.  The  devotion  of  staunch 
friends  will  solace  and  cheer  me.  The  call  of  the  great 
Cause  will  give  strength  to  live,  to  struggle,  to  conquer. 

II 

...  Humiliation  overwhelms  me  as  I  don  the  loathed  suit 
of  striped  black  and  gray.  The  insolent  look  of  the 
guard  rouses  my  bitter  resentment,  as  he  closely  scruti¬ 
nizes  my  naked  body.  But  presently,  the  examination 
over,  a  sense  of  gratification  steals  over  me  at  the  as¬ 
sertiveness  of  my  self-respect. 

The  ordeal  of  the  day’s  routine  is  full  of  inexpres¬ 
sible  anguish.  Accustomed  to  prison  conditions,  I  yet 
find  existence  in  the  workhouse  a  nightmare  of  cruelty, 
infinitely  worse  than  the  most  inhuman  aspects  of  the 
penitentiary.  The  guards  are  surly  and  brutal ;  the  food 
foul  and  inadequate ;  punishment  for  the  slightest  offence 
instantaneous  and  ruthless.  The  cells  are  even  smaller 
than  in  the  penitentiary,  and  contain  neither  chair  nor 
table.  They  are  unspeakably  ill-smelling  with  the  privy 
buckets,  for  the  purposes  of  which  no  scrap  of  waste 
paper  is  allowed.  The  sole  ablutions  of  the  day  are 
performed  in  the  morning,  when  the  men  form  in  the 
hall  and  march  past  the  spigot  of  running  water,  snatch¬ 
ing  a  handful  in  the  constantly  moving  line.  Absolute 


THE  WORKHOUSE 


475 


silence  prevails  in  cell-house  and  shop.  The  slightest 
motion  of  the  lips  is  punished  with  the  blackjack  or  the 
dungeon,  referred  to  with  caustic  satire  as  the  “White 
House.” 

The  perverse  logic  of  the  law  that  visits  the  utmost 
limit  of  barbarity  upon  men  admittedly  guilty  of  minor 
transgressions !  Throughout  the  breadth  of  the  land  the 
workhouses  are  notoriously  more  atrocious  in  every  re¬ 
spect  than  the  penitentiaries  and  State  prisons,  in  which 
are  confined  men  convicted  of  felonies.  The  Allegheny 
County  Workhouse  of  the  great  Commonwealth  of  Penn¬ 
sylvania  enjoys  infamous  distinction  as  the  blackest  of 
hells  where  men  expiate  the  sins  of  society. 

At  work  in  the  broom  shop,  I  find  myself  in  pecul¬ 
iarly  familiar  surroundings.  The  cupidity  of  the  man¬ 
agement  has  evolved  methods  even  more  inhuman  than 
those  obtaining  in  the  State  prison.  The  tasks  imposed 
upon  the  men  necessitate  feverish  exertion.  Insuffi¬ 
cient  product  or  deficient  work  is  not  palliated  by  phys¬ 
ical  inability  or  illness.  In  the  conduct  of  the  various  in¬ 
dustries,  every  artifice  prevalent  in  the  penitentiary  is 
practised  to  evade  the  law  limiting  convict  competition. 
The  number  of  men  employed  in  productive  work  by 
far  exceeds  the  legally  permitted  percentage;  the  pro¬ 
visions  for  the  protection  of  free  labor  are  skilfully 
circumvented ;  the  tags  attached  to  the  shop  products  are 
designed  to  be  obliterated  as  soon  as  the  wares  have  left 
the  prison;  the  words  “convict-made”  stamped  on  the 
broom-handles  are  pasted  over  with  labels  giving  no  in¬ 
dication  of  the  place  of  manufacture.  The  anti-convict- 
labor'  law,  symbolic  of  the  political  achievements  of  labor, 
is  frustrated  at  every  point,  its  element  of  protection  a 
“lame  and  impotent  conclusion.” 


4 76  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


How  significant  the  travesty  of  the  law  in  its  holy 
of  holies!  Here  legal  justice  immures  its  victims;  here 
are  buried  the  disinherited,  whose  rags  and  tatters  annoy 
respectability;  here  offenders  are  punished  for  breaking 
the  law.  And  here  the  Law  is  daily  and  hourly  violated 
by  its  pious  high  priests. 

Ill 

* 

The  immediate  is  straining  at  the  leash  that  holds 
memory  in  the  environment  of  the  penitentiary,  yet  the 
veins  of  the  terminated  existence  still  palpitate  with  the 
recollection  of  friends  and  common  suffering.  The 
messages  from  Riverside  are  wet  with  tears  of  misery, 
but  Johnny,  the  young  Magyar,  strikes  a  note  of  cheer: 
his  sentence  is  about  to  expire;  he  will  devote  himself 
to  the  support  of  the  little  children  he  had  so  unwittingly 
robbed  of  a  father.  Meanwhile  he  bids  me  courage  and 
hope,  enclosing  two  dollars  from  the  proceeds  of  his 
fancy  work,  “to  help  along.”  He  was  much  grieved,  he 
writes,  at  his  inability  to  bid  me  a  last  farewell,  because 
the  Warden  refused  the  request,  signed  by  two  hundred 
prisoners,  that  I  be  allowed  to  pass  along  the  tiers  to 
say  good-bye.  But  soon,  soon  we  shall  see  each  other 
in  freedom. 

Words  of  friendship  glow  brightly  in  the  darkness 
of  the  present,  and  charm  my  visions  of  the  near  future. 
Coming  liberty  casts  warming  rays,  and  I  dwell  in  the 
atmosphere  of  my  comrades.  The  Girl  and  the  Chum 
are  aglow  with  the  fires  of  Young  Russia.  Busily  my 
mind  shapes  pictures  of  the  great  struggle  that  trans¬ 
plant  me  to  the  days  of  my  youth.  In  the  little  tenement 
flat  in  New  York  we  had  sketched  with  bold  stroke  the 
fortunes  of  the  world — the  Girl,  the  Twin,  and  I.  In 
the  dark,  cage-like  kitchen,  amid  the  smoke  of  the  asth- 


THE  WORKHOUSE 


477 


matic  stove,  we  had  planned  our  conspirative  work  in 
Russia.  But  the  need  of  the  hour  had  willed  it  other¬ 
wise.  Homestead  had  sounded  the  prelude  of  awaken¬ 
ing,  and  my  heart  had  echoed  the  inspiring  strains. 

The  banked  fires  of  aspiration  burst  into  life.  What 
matter  the  immediate  outcome  of  the  revolution  in  Rus¬ 
sia?  The  yearning  of  my  youth  wells  up  with  spon¬ 
taneous  power.  To  live  is  to  struggle!  To  struggle 
against  Caesar,  side  by  side  with  the  people:  to  suffer 
with  them,  and  to  die,  if  need  be.  That  is  life.  It  will 
sadden  me  to  part  with  Chum  even  before  I  had  looked 
deeply  into  the  devoted  face.  But  the  Girl  is  aflame 
with  the  spirit  of  Russia:  it  will  be  joyous  work  in 
common.  The  soil  of  Monongahela,  laden  with  years  of 
anguish,  has  grown  dear  to  me.  Like  the  moan  of  a 
broken  chord  wails  the  thought  of  departure.  But  no 
ties  of  affection  will  strain  at  my  heartstrings.  Yet — 
the  sweet  face  of  a  little  girl  breaks  in  on  my  reverie, 
a  look  of  reproaching  sadness  in  the  large,  wistful  eyes. 
It  is  little  Stella.  The  last  years  of  my  penitentiary 
life  have  snatched  many  a  grace  from  her  charming  cor¬ 
respondence.  Often  I  have  sought  consolation  in  the 
beautiful  likeness  of  her  soulful  face.  With  mute  ten¬ 
derness  she  had  shared  my  grief  at  the  loss  of  Harry, 
her  lips  breathing  sweet  balm.  Gray  days  had  warmed 
at  her  smile,  and  I  lavished  upon  her  all  the  affection 
with  which  I  was  surcharged.  It  will  be  a  violent  stifling 
of  her  voice  in  my  heart,  but  the  call  of  the  muzhik 
rings  clear,  compelling.  Yet  who  knows?  The  revolu¬ 
tion  may  be  over  before  my  resurrection.  In  republican 
Russia,  with  her  enlightened  social  protestantism,  life 
would  be  fuller,  richer  than  in  this  pitifully  bourgeois 
democracy.  Freedom  will  present  the  unaccustomed 
problem  of  self-support,  but  it  is  premature  to  form 


478  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


definite  plans.  Long  imprisonment  has  probably  inca¬ 
pacitated  me  for  hard  work,  but  I  shall  find  means  to 
earn  my  simple  needs  when  I  have  cast  off  the  fetters 
of  my  involuntary  parasitism. 

The  thought  of  affection,  the  love  of  woman,  thrills 
me  with  ecstasy,  and  colors  my  existence  with  emotions 
of  strange  bliss.  But  the  solitary  hours  are  filled  with 
recurring  dread  lest  my  life  forever  remain  bare  of 
woman’s  love.  Often  the  fear  possesses  me  with  the 
intensity  of  despair,  as  my  mind  increasingly  dwells  on 
the  opposite  sex.  Thoughts  of  woman  eclipse  the 
memory  of  the  prison  affections,  and  the  darkness  of 
the  present  is  threaded  with  the  silver  needle  of  love- 
hopes. 


IV 

The  monotony  of  the  routine,  the  degradation  and 
humiliation  weigh  heavier  in  the  shadow  of  liberty.  My 
strength  is  failing  with  the  hard  task  in  the  shop,  but 
the  hope  of  receiving  my  full  commutation  sustains  me. 
The  law  allows  five  months’  “good  time”  on  every  year 
beginning  with  the  ninth  year  of  a  sentence.  But  the 
Superintendent  has  intimated  to  me  that  I  may  be 
granted  the  benefit  of  only  two  months,  as  a  “new” 
prisoner,  serving  the  first  year  of  a  workhouse  sentence. 
The  Board  of  Directors  will  undoubtedly  take  that  view, 
he  often  taunts  me.  Exasperation  at  his  treatment, 
coupled  with  my  protest  against  the  abuse  of  a  fellow 
prisoner,  have  caused  me  to  be  ordered  into  the  solitary. 
Dear  Chum  is  insistent  on  legal  steps  to  secure  my  full 
commutation;  notwithstanding  my  unconditional  refusal 
to  resort  to  the  courts,  he  has  initiated  a  sub  rosa  cam¬ 
paign  to  achieve  his  object.  The  time  drags  in  torturing 
uncertainty.  With  each  day  the  solitary  grows  more 


THE  WORKHOUSE 


479 


stifling,  maddening,  till  my  brain  reels  with  terror  of  the 
graveyard  silence.  Like  glad  music  sounds  the  stern 
command,  “Exercise !” 

In  step  we  circle  the  yard,  the  clanking  of  Charley’s 
chain  mournfully  beating  time.  He  had  made  an  un¬ 
successful  attempt  to  escape,  for  which  he  is  punished 
with  the  ball  and  chain.  The  iron  cuts  into  his  ankle, 
and  he  trudges  painfully  under  the  heavy  weight.  Near 
me  staggers  Billy,  his  left  side  completely  paralyzed 
since  he  was  released  from  the  “White  House.”  All 
about  me  are  cripples.  I  am  in  the  midst  of 
the  social  refuse:  the  lame  and  the  halt,  the  broken  in 
body  and  spirit,  past  work,  past  even  crime.  These 
were  the  blessed  of  the  Nazarene;  these  a  Christian 
world  breaks  on  the  wheel.  They,  too,  are  within  the 
scope  of  my  mission,  they  above  all  others — these  the 
living  indictments  of  a  leprous  system,  the  excommuni¬ 
cated  of  God  and  man. 

The  threshold  of  liberty  is  thickly  sown  with  misery 
and  torment.  The  days  are  unbearable  with  nervous 
restlessness,  the  nights  hideous  with  the  hours  of  ago¬ 
nizing  stillness, — the  endless,  endless  hours.  Feverishly  I 
pace  the  cell.  The  day  will  pass,  it  must  pass.  With 
reverent  emotion  I  bless  the  shamed  sun  as  he  dips 
beyond  the  western  sky.  One  day  nearer  to  the  liberty 
that  awaits  me,  with  unrestricted  sunshine  and  air  and 
life  beyond  the  hated  walls  of  gray,  out  in  the  daylight, 
in  the  open.  The  open  world !  .  .  .  The  scent  of  fresh- 
mown  hay  is  in  my  nostrils;  green  fields  and  forests 
stretch  before  me;  sweetly  ripples  the  mountain  spring. 
Up  to  the  mountain  crest,  to  the  breezes  and  the  sun¬ 
shine,  where  the  storm  breaks  in  its  wild  fury  upon  my 
uncovered  head.  Welcome  the  rain  and  the  wind  that 
sweep  the  foul  prison  dust  off  my  heart,  and  blow  life 


480  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


and  strength  into  my  being!  Tremblingly  rapturous  is 
the  thought  of  freedom.  Out  in  the  woods',  away  from 
the  stench  of  the  cannibal  world  I  shall  wander,  nor  lift 
my  foot  from  soil  or  sod.  Close  to  the  breath  of  Nature 
I  will  press  my  parched  lips,  on  her  bosom  I  will  pass 
my  days,  drinking  sustenance  and  strength  from  the 
universal  mother.  And  there,  in  liberty  and  independ¬ 
ence,  in  the  vision  of  the  mountain  peaks,  I  shall  voice 
the  cry  of  the  social  orphans,  of  the  buried  and  the 
disinherited,  and  visualize  to  the  living  the  yearning, 
menacing  Face  of  Pain. 


PART  IV 


THE  RESURRECTION 


THE  RESURRECTION 


I 

All  night  I  toss  sleeplessly  on  the  cot,  and  pace  the 
cell  in  nervous  agitation,  waiting  for  the  dawn.  With 
restless  joy  I  watch  the  darkness  melt,  as  the  first  rays 
herald  the  coming  of  the  day.  It  is  the  18th  of  May — 
my  last  day,  my  very  last!  A  few  more  hours,  and  I 
shall  walk  through  the  gates,  and  drink  in  the  warm 
sunshine  and  the  balmy  air,  and  be  free  to  go  and  come 
as  I  please,  after  the  nightmare  of  thirteen  years  and  ten 
months  in  jail,  penitentiary,  and  workhouse. 

My  step  quickens  with  the  excitement  of  the  outside, 
and  I  try  to  while  away  the  heavy  hours  thinking  of 
freedom  aqd  of  friends.  But  my  brain  is  in  a  turmoil; 
I  cannot  concentrate  my  thoughts.  Visions  of  the  near 
future,  images  of  the  past,  flash  before  me,  and  crowd 
each  other  in  bewildering  confusion. 

Again  and  again  my  mind  reverts  to  the  unneces¬ 
sary  cruelty  that  has  kept  me  in  prison  three  months 
over  and  above  my  time.  It  was  sheer  sophistry  to  con¬ 
sider  me  a  “new”  prisoner,  entitled  only  to  two  months’ 
commutation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  serving  the  last 
year  of  a  twenty-two-year  sentence,  and  therefore  I 
should  have  received  five  months  time  off.  The  Super¬ 
intendent  had  repeatedly  promised  to  inform  me  of  the 
decision  of  the  Board  of  Directors,  and  every  day,  for 
weeks  and  months,  I  anxiously  waited  for  word  from 

483 


484  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


them.  None  ever  came,  and  I  had  to  serve  the  full  ten 
months. 

Ah,  well,  it  is  almost  over  now!  I  have  passed  my 
last  night  in  the  cell,  and  the  morning  is  here,  the 
precious,  blessed  morning! 

1 

How  slowly  the  minutes  creep !  I  listen  intently,  and 
catch  the  sound  of  bars  being  unlocked  on  the  bottom 
range:  it  is  the  Night  Captain  turning  the  kitchen  men 
out  to  prepare  breakfast — 5  a.  m!  Two  and  a  half 
hours  yet  before  I  shall  be  called;  two  endless  hours,  and 
then  another  thirty  long  minutes.  Will  they  ever  pass? 
.  .  .  And  again  I  pace  the  cell. 


II 

The  gong  rings  the  rising  hour.  In  great  agitation  I 
gather  up  my  blankets,  tincup  and  spoon,  which  must  be 
delivered  at  the  office  before  I  am  discharged.  My  heart 
beats  turbulently,  as  I  stand  at  the  door,  waiting  to  be 
called.  But  the  guard  unlocks  the  range  and  orders  me 
to  “fall  in  for  breakfast.” 

The  striped  line  winds  down  the  stairs,  past  the  lynx- 
eyed  Deputy  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hallway,  and 
slowly  circles  through  the  centre,  where  each  man  re¬ 
ceives  his  portion  of  bread  for  the  day  and  returns  to 
his  tier.  The  turnkey,  on  his  rounds  of  the  range,  casts 
a  glance  into  my  cell.  “Not  workin’,”  he  says  mechan¬ 
ically,  shutting  the  door  in  my  face. 

‘Tm  going  out,”  I  protest. 

“Not  till  you’re  called,”  he  retorts,  locking  me  in. 

I  stand  at  the  door,  tense  with  suspense.  I  strain  my 
ear  for  the  approach  of  a  guard  to  call  me  to  the  office, 
but  all  remains  quiet.  A  vague  fear  steals  over  me :  per- 


THE  RESURRECTION 


485 


haps  they  will  not  release  me  to-day;  I  may  be  losing 
time.  ...  A  feeling  of  nausea  overcomes  me,  but  by  a 
strong  effort  I  throw  off  the  dreadful  fancy,  and  quicken 
my  step.  I  must  not  think — not  think.  .  .  . 

At  last!  The  lever  is  pulled,  my  cell  unlocked,  and 
with  a  dozen  other  men  I  am  marched  to  the  dothes- 
room,  in  single  file  and  lockstep.  I  await  my  turn  im¬ 
patiently,  as  several  men  are  undressed  and  their  naked 
bodies  scrutinized  for  contraband  or  hidden  messages. 
The  overseer  flings  a  small  bag  at  each  man,  containing 
the  prisoner’s  civilian  garb,  shouting  boisterously :  “Hey, 
you !  Take  off  them  clothes,  and  put  your  rags  on.” 

I  dress  hurriedly.  A  guard  accompanies  me  to  the 
office,  where  my  belongings  are  returned  to  me:  some 
money  friends  had  sent,  my  watch,  and  the  piece  of  ivory 
the  penitentiary  turnkey  had  stolen  from  me,  and  which 
I  had  insisted  on  getting  back  before  I  left  Riverside. 
The  officer  in  charge  hands  me  a  railroad  ticket  to  Pitts¬ 
burgh  (the  fare  costing  about  thirty  cents),  and  I  am 
conducted  to  the  prison  gate. 

Ill 

The  sun  shines  brightly  in  the  yard,  the  sky  is  clear, 
the  air  fresh  and  bracing.  Now  the  last  gate  will  be 
thrown  open,  and  I  shall  be  out  of  sight  of  the  guard,  be¬ 
yond  the  bars, — alone!  How  I  have  hungered  for  this 
hour,  how  often  in  the  past  years  have  I  dreamed  of  this 
rapturous  moment — to  be  alone,  out  in  the  open,  away 
from  the  insolent  eyes  of  my  keepers !  I’ll  rush  away 
from  these  walls  and  kneel  on  the  warm  sod,  and  kiss 
the  soil  and  embrace  the  trees,  and  with  a  song  of  joy 
give  thanks  to  Nature  for  the  blessings  of  sunshine  and 
air. 


486  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


The  outer  door  opens  before  me,  and  I  am  confronted 
by  reporters  with  cameras.  Several  tall  men  approach 
me.  One  of  them  touches  me  on  the  shoulder,  turns 
back  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  revealing  a  police  officer’s  star, 
and  says: 

“Berkman,  you  are  to  leave  the  city  before  night, 
by  order  of  the  Chief.” 

The  detectives  and  reporters  trailing  me  to  the  nearby 
railway  station  attract  a  curious  crowd.  I  hasten  into  a 
car  to  escape  their  insistent  gaze,  feeling  glad  that  I  have 
prevailed  upon  my  friends  not  to  meet  me  at  the  prison. 

My  mind  is  busy  with  plans  to  outwit  the  detectives, 
who  have  entered  the  same  compartment.  I  have  ar¬ 
ranged  to  join  the  Girl  in  Detroit.  I  have  no  particular 
reason  to  mask  my  movements,  but  I  resent  the  sur¬ 
veillance.  I  must  get  rid  of  the  spies,  somehow ;  I  don’t 
want  their  hateful  eyes  to  desecrate  my  meeting  with  the 
Girl. 

I  feel  dazed.  The  short  ride  to  Pittsburgh  is  over 
before  I  can  collect  my  thoughts.  The  din  and  noise 
rend  my  ears ;  the  rushing  cars,  the  clanging  bells,  be¬ 
wilder  me.  I  am  afraid  to  cross  the  street;  the  fly¬ 
ing  monsters  pursue  me  on  every  side.  The  crowds 
jostle  me  on  the  sidewalk,  and  I  am  constantly  running 
into  the  passers-by.  The  turmoil,  the  ceaseless  move¬ 
ment,  disconcerts  me.  A  horseless  carriage  whizzes  close 
by  me ;  I  turn  to  look  at  the  first  automobile  I  have  ever 
seen,  but  the  living  current  sweeps  me  helplessly  along. 
A  woman  passes  me,  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  The 
baby  looks  strangely  diminutive,  a  rosy  dimple  in  the 
laughing  face.  I  smile  back  at  the  little  cherub,  and  my 
eyes  meet  the  gaze  of  the  detectives.  A  wild  thought  to 
escape,  to  get  away  from  them,  possesses  me,  and  I  turn 
quickly  into  a  side  street,  and  walk  blindly,  faster  and 


THE  RESURRECTION  .  '  487 

faster.  A  sudden  impulse  seizes  me  at  the  sight  of  a 
passing  car,  and  I  dash  after  it. 

“Fare,  please !”  the  conductor  sings  out,  and  I  almost 
laugh  out  aloud  at  the  fleeting  sense  of  the  material  real¬ 
ity  of  freedom.  Conscious  of  the  strangeness  of  my 
action,  I  produce  a  dollar  bill,  and  a  sense  of  exhilarating 
independence  comes  over  me,  as  the  man  counts  out  the 
silver  coins.  I  watch  him  closely  for  a  sign  of  recogni¬ 
tion.  Does  he  realize  that  I  am  just  out  of  prison?  He 
turns  away,  and  I  feel  thankful  to  the  dear  Chum  for 
having  so  thoughtfully  provided  me  with  a  new  suit  of 
clothes.  It  is  peculiar,  however,  that  the  conductor  has 
failed  to  notice  my  closely  cropped  hair.  But  the  man 
in  the  seat  opposite  seems  to  be  watching  me.  Perhaps 
he  has  recognized  me  by  my  picture  in  the  newspapers; 
or  may  be  it  is  my  straw  hat  that  has  attracted  his  atten¬ 
tion.  I  glance  about  me.  No  one  wears  summer  head- 
gear  yet;  it  must  be  too  early  in  the  season.  I  ought  to 
change  it:  the  detectives  could  not  follow  me  so  easily 
then.  Why,  there  they  are  on  the  back  platform ! 

At  the  next  stop  I  jump  off  the  car.  A  hat  sign  ar¬ 
rests  my  eye,  and  I  walk  into  the  store,  and  then  slip 
quietly  through  a  side  entrance,  a  dark  derby  on  my 
head.  I  walk  quickly,  for  a  long,  long  time,  board  sev¬ 
eral  cars,  and  then  walk  again,  till  I  find  myself  on  a 
deserted  street.  No  one  is  following  me  now;  the  de¬ 
tectives  must  have  lost  track  of  me.  I  feel  worn  and 
tired.  Where  could  I  rest  up,  I  wonder,  when  I  sud¬ 
denly  recollect  that  I  was  to  go  directly  from  the  prison 

to  the  drugstore  of  Comrade  M - .  My  friends  must 

be  worried,  and  M -  is  waiting  to  wire  to  the  Girl 

about  my  release. 

It  is  long  past  noon  when  I  enter  the  drugstore. 


488 


PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


M -  seems  highly  wrought  up  over  something;  he 

shakes  my  hand  violently,  and  plies  me  with  questions,  as 
he  leads  me  into  his  apartments  in  the  rear  of  the  store. 
It  seems  strange  to  be  in  a  regular  room :  there  is  paper 
on  the  walls,  and  it  feels  so  peculiar  to  the  touch,  so 
different  from  the  whitewashed  cell.  I  pass  my  hand 
over  it  caressingly,  with  a  keen  sense  of  pleasure.  The 
chairs,  too,  look  strange,  and  those  quaint  things  on  the 
table.  The  bric-a-brac  absorbs  my  attention — the  people 
in  the  room  look  hazy,  their  voices  sound  distant  and 
confused. 

“Why  don’t  you  sit  down,  Aleck?”  the  tones  are 
musical  and  tender;  a  woman’s,  no  doubt. 

“Yes,”  I  reply,  walking  around  the  table,  and  picking 
up  a  bright  toy.  It  represents  Undine,  rising  from  the 
water,  the  spray  glistening  in  the  sun.  .  .  . 

“Are  you  tired,  Aleck?” 

“N— no.” 

“You  have  just  come  out?” 

“Yes.” 

It  requires  an  effort  to  talk.  The  last  year,  in  the 
workhouse,  I  have  barely  spoken  a  dozen  words;  there 
was  always  absolute  silence.  The  voices  disturb  me.  The 
presence  of  so  many  people — there  are  three  or  four 
about  me — is  oppressive.  The  room  reminds  me  of  the 
cell,  and  the  desire  seizes  me  to  rush  out  into  the  open, 
to  breathe  the  air  and  see  the  sky. 

“I’m  going,”  I  say,  snatching  up  my  hat. 

IV 

i 

The  train  speeds  me  to  Detroit,  and  I  wonder 
vaguely  how  I  reached  the  station.  My  brain  is  numb; 
I  cannot  think.  Field  and  forest  flit  by  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  but  the  surroundings  wake  no  interest  in  me.  “I 


THE  RESURRECTION 


489 


am  rid  of  the  detectives” — the  thought  persists  in  my 
mind,  and  I  feel  something  relax  within  me,  and  leave 
me  cold,  without  emotion  or  desire. 

With  an  effort  I  descend  to  the  platform,  and  sway 
from  side  to  side,  as  I  cross  the  station  at  Detroit.  A 
man  and  a  girl  hasten  toward  me,  and  grasp  me  by  the 
hand.  I  recognize  Carl.  The  dear  boy,  he  was  a  most 
faithful  and  cheering  correspondent  all  these  years  since 
he  left  the  penitentiary.  But  who  is  the  girl  with  him, 
I  wonder,  when  my  gaze  falls  on  a  woman  leaning 
against  a  pillar.  She  looks  intently  at  me.  The  wave 
of  her  hair,  the  familiar  eyes — why,  it’s  the  Girl !  How 
little  she  has  changed !  I  take  a  few  steps  forward, 
somewhat  surprised  that  she  did  not  rush  up  to  me  like 
the  others.  I  feel  pleased  at  her  self-possession :  the 
excited  voices,  the  quick  motions,  disturb  me.  I  walk 
slowly  toward  her,  but  she  does  not  move.  She  seems 
rooted  to  the  spot,  her  hand  grasping  the  pillar,  a  look 
of  awe  and  terror  in  her  face.  Suddenly  she  throws 
her  arms  around  me.  Her  lips  move,  but  no  sound 
reaches  my  ear. 

We  walk  in  silence.  The  Girl  presses  a  bouquet  into 
my  hand.  My  heart  is  full,  but  I  cannot  talk.  I  hold 
the  flowers  to  my  face,  and  mechanically  bite  the  petals. 

V 

Detroit,  Chicago,  and  Milwaukee  pass  before  me 
like  a  troubled  dream.  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  a 
sea  of  faces,  restless  and  turbulent,  and  I  in  its  midst. 
Confused  voices  beat  like  hammers  on  my  head,  and  then 
all  is  very  still..  I  stand  in  full  view  of  the  audience. 
Eyes  are  turned  on  me  from  every  side,  and  I  grow 
embarrassed.  The  crowd  looks  dim  and  hazy;  I  feel  hot 


49°  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


and  cold,  and  a  great  longing  to  flee.  The  perspiration 
is  running  down  my  back;  my  knees  tremble  violently, 
the  floor  is  slipping  from  under  my  feet — there  is  a 
tumult  of  hand  clapping,  loud  cheers  and  bravos. 

We  return  to  Carl’s  house,  and  men  and  women 
grasp  my  hand  and  look  at  me  with  eyes  of  curious  awe. 
I  fancy  a  touch  of  pity  in  their  tones,  and  am  impatient 
of  their  sympathy.  A  sense  of  suffocation  possesses  me 
within  doors,  and  I  dread  the  presence  of  people.  It  is 
torture  to  talk;  the  sound  of  voices  agonizes  me.  I 
watch  for  an  opportunity  to  steal  out  of  the  house.  It 
soothes  me  to  lose  myself  among  the  crowds,  and  a  sense 
of  quiet  pervades  me  at  the  thought  that  I  am  a  stranger 
to  every  one  about  me.  I  roam  the  city  at  night,  and 
seek  the  outlying  country,  conscious  only  of  a  desire  to 
be  alone. 


VI 

I  am  in  the  Waldheim,  the  Girl  at  my  side.  All  is 
quiet  in  the  cemetery,  and  I  feel  a  great  peace.  No  emo¬ 
tion  stirs  me  at  the  sight  of  the  monument,  save  a  feel¬ 
ing  of  quiet  sadness.  It  represents  a  woman,  with  one 
hand  placing  a  wreath  on  the  fallen,  with  the  other 
grasping  a  sword.  The  marble  features  mirror  un¬ 
utterable  grief  and  proud  defiance. 

I  glance  at  the  Girl.  Her  face  is  averted,  but  the 
droop  of  her  head  speaks  of  suffering.  I  hold  out  my 
hand  to  her,  and  we  stand  in  mute  sorrow  at  the  graves 
of  our  martyred  comrades.  ...  I  have  a  vision  of 
Stenka  Razin,  as  I  had  seen  him  pictured  in  my  youth, 
and  at  his  side  hang  the  bodies  of  the  men  buried  be¬ 
neath  my  feet.  Why  are  they  dead?  I  wonder.  Why 
should  I  live?  And  a  great  desire  to  lie  down  with 


THE  RESURRECTION 


491 


them  is  upon  me.  I  clutch  the  iron  post,  to  keep  from 
falling. 

Steps  sound  behind  me,  and  I  turn  to  see  a  girl 
hastening  toward  us.  She  is  radiant  with  young  woman¬ 
hood;  her  presence  breathes  life  and  the  joy  of  it.  Her 
bosom  heaves  with  panting;  her  face  struggles  with  a 
solemn  look. 

“I  ran  all  the  way,”  her  voice  is  soft  and  low;  “I 
was  afraid  I  might  miss  you.” 

The  Girl  smiles.  “Let  us  go  in  somewhere  to  rest 
up,  Alice.”  Turning  to  me,  she  adds,  “She  ran  to  see — 
you.” 

How  peculiar  the  Girl  should  conceive  such  an  idea! 
It  is  absurd.  Why  should  Alice  be  anxious  to  see  me? 
I  look  old  and  worn;  my  step  is  languid,  unsteady.  .  .  . 
Bitter  thoughts  fill  my  mind,  as  we  ride  back  on  the  train 
to  Chicago. 

“You  are  sad,”  the  Girl  remarks.  “Alice  is  very 
much  taken  with  you.  Aren’t  you  glad?” 

“You  are  mistaken,”  I  reply. 

“I’m  sure  of  it,”  the  Girl  persists.  “Shall  I  ask  her?” 

She  turns  to  Alice. 

“Oh,  I  like  you  so  much,  Sasha,”  Alice  whispers. 
I  look  up  timidly  at  her.  She  is  leaning  toward  me  in 
the  abandon  of  artless  tenderness,  and  a  great  joy  steals 
over  me,  as  I  read  in  her  eyes  frank  affection. 


VII 

New  York  looks  unexpectedly  familiar,  though  I  miss 
many  old  landmarks.  It  is  torture  to  be  indoors,  and  I 
roam  the  streets,  experiencing  a  thrill  of  kinship  when  I 
locate  one  of  my  old  haunts. 


492  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


I  feel  little  interest  in  the  large  meeting  arranged  to 
greet  me  back  into  the  world.  Yet  I  am  conscious  of 
some  curiosity  about  the  comrades  I  may  meet  there. 
Few  of  the  old  guard  have  remained.  Some  dropped 
from  the  ranks;  others  died.  John  Most  will  not  be 
there.  I  cherished  the  hope  of  meeting  him  again, 
but  he  died  a  few  months  before  my  release.  He  had 
been  unjust  to  me;  but  who  is  free  from  moments  of 
weakness?  The  passage  of  time  has  mellowed  the 
bitterness  of  my  resentment,  and  I  think  of  him,  my 
first  teacher  of  Anarchy,  with  old-time  admiration.  His 
unique  personality  stands  out  in  strong  relief  upon  the 
flat  background  of  his  time.  His  life  was  the  tragedy 
of  the  ever  unpopular  pioneer.  A  social  Lear,  his 
whitening  years  brought  only  increasing  isolation  and 
greater  lack  of  understanding,  even  within  his  own  circle. 
He  had  struggled  and  suffered  much;  he  gave  his  whole 
life  to  advance  the  Cause,  only  to  find  at  the  last  that  he 
who  crosses  the  threshold  must  leave  all  behind,  even 
friendship,  even  comradeship. 

My  old  friend,  Justus  Schwab,  is  also  gone,  and 
Brady,  the  big  Austrian.  Few  of  the  comrades  of  my 
day  have  survived.  The  younger  generation  seems  dif¬ 
ferent,  unsatisfactory.  The  Ghetto  I  had  known  has 
also  disappeared.  Primitive  Orchard  Street,  the  scene 
of  our  pioneer  meetings,  has  conformed  to  business  re¬ 
spectability;  the  historic  lecture  hall,  that  rang  with  the 
breaking  chains  of  the  awakening  people,  has  been  turned 
into  a  dancing-school ;  the  little  cafe  “around  the  corner,” 
the  intellectual  arena  of  former  years,  is  now  a  counting- 
house.  The  fervid  enthusiasm  of  the  past,  the  sponta¬ 
neous  comradeship  in  the  common  cause,  the  intoxica¬ 
tion  of  world-liberating  zeal-^-all  are  gone  with  the  days 
of  my  youth.  I  sense  the  spirit  of  cold  deliberatiorl  in 


THE  RESURRECTION 


493 


the  new  set,  and  a  tone  of  disillusioned  wisdom  that  chills 
and  estranges  me. 

The  Girl  has  also  changed.  The  little  Sailor,  my 
companion  of  the  days  that  thrilled  with  the  approach 
of  the  Social  Revolution,  has  become  a  woman  of  the 
world.  Her  mind  has  matured,  but  her  wider  interests 
antagonize  my  old  revolutionary  traditions  that  inspired 
every  day  and  colored  our  every  act  with  the  direct  per¬ 
ception  of  the  momentarily  expected  great  upheaval.  I 
feel  an  instinctive  disapproval  of  many  things,  though 
particular  instances  are  intangible  and  elude  my  analysis. 
I  sense  a  foreign  element  in  the  circle  she  has  gathered 
about  her,  and  feel  myself  a  stranger  among  them.  Her 
friends  and  admirers  crowd  her  home,  and  turn  it  into 
a  sort  of  salon.  They  talk  art  and  literature;  discuss 
science  and  philosophize  over  the  disharmony  of  life. 
But  the  groans  of  the  dungeon  find  no  gripping  echo 
there.  The  Girl  is  the  most  revolutionary  of  them  all ; 
but  even  she  has  been  infected  by  the  air  of  intellectual 
aloofness,  false  tolerance  and  everlasting  pessimism.  I 
resent  the  situation,  the  more  I  become  conscious  of 
the  chasm  between  the  Girl  and  myself.  It  seems  un¬ 
bridgeable  ;  we  cannot  recover  the  intimate  note  of  our 
former  comradeship.  With  pain  I  witness  her  evident 
misery.  She  is  untiring  in  her  care  and  affection ;  the 
whole  circle  lavishes  on  me  sympathy  and  tenderness. 
But  through  it  all  I  feel  the  commiserating  tolerance 
toward  a  sick  child.  I  shun  the  atmosphere  of  the  house, 
and  flee  to  seek  the  solitude  of  the  crowded  streets  and 
the  companionship  of  the  plain,  untutored  underworld. 

In  a  Bowery  resort  I  come  across  Dan,  my  assistant 
on  the  range  during  my  last  year  in  the  penitentiary. 

“Hello,  Aleck,”  he  says,  taking  me  aside,  “awful  glad 
to  see  you  out  of  hell.  Doing  all  right?” 


494  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


“So,  so,  Dan.  And  you?” 

“Rotten,  Aleck,  rotten.  You  know  it  was  my  first  bit, 
and  I  swore  Fd  never  do  a  crooked  job  again.  Well, 
they  turned  me  out  with  a  five-spot,  after  four  years’ 
steady  work,  mind  you,  and  three  of  them  working  my 
head  off  on  a  loom.  Then  they  handed  me  a  pair  of 
Kentucky  jeans,  that  any  fly-cop  could  spot  a  mile  off. 
My  friends  went  back  on  me — that  five-spot  was  all  I 
had  in  the  world,  and  it  didn’t  go  a  long  way.  Liberty 
ain’t  what  it  looks  to  a  fellow  through  the  bars,  Aleck, 
but  it’s  hell  to  go  back.  I  don’t  know  what  to  do.” 

“How  do  you  happen  here,  Dan?  Could  you  get  no 
work  at  home,  in  Oil  City?” 

“Home,  hell !  I  wish  I  had  a  home  and  friends,  like 
you,  Aleck,  Christ,  d’you  think  I’d  ever  turn  another 
trick?  But  I  got  no  home  and  no  friends.  Mother  died 
before  I  came  out,  and  I  found  no  home.  I  got  a  job  in 
Oil  City,  but  the  bulls  tipped  me  off  for  an  ex-con,  and 
I  beat  my  way  here.  I  tried  to  do  the  square  thing, 
Aleck,  but  where’s  a  fellow  to  turn?  I  haven’t  a  cent 
and  not  a  friend  in  the  world.” 

Poor  Dan!  I  feel  powerless  to  help  him,  even  with 
advice.  Without  friends  or  money,  his  “liberty”  is  a 
hollow  mockery,  even  worse  than  mine.  Five  years  ago 
he  was  a  strong,  healthy  young  man.  He  committed  a 
burglary,  and  was  sent  to  prison.  Now  he  is  out,  his 
body  weakened,  his  spirit  broken ;  he  is  less  capable  than 
ever  to  survive  in  the  struggle.  What  is  he  to  do  but 
commit  another  crime  and  be  returned  to  prison?  Even 
I,  with  so  many  advantages  that  Dan  is  lacking,  with  kind 
comrades  and  helpful  friends,  I  can  find  no  place  in  this 
world  of  the  outside.  I  have  been  torn  out,  and  I  seem 
unable  to  take  root  again.  Everything  looks  so  different, 
changed.  And  yet  I  feel  a  great  hunger  for  life.  I  could 
enjoy  the  sunshine,  the  open,  and  freedom  of  action. 


THE  RESURRECTION 


495 


I  could  make  my  life  and  my  prison  experience  useful  to 
the  world.  But  I  am  incapacitated  for  the  struggle.  I 
do  not  fit  in  any  more,  not  even  in  the  circle  of  my  com¬ 
rades.  And  this  seething  life,  the  turmoil  and  the  noises 
of  the  city,  agonize  me.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  for  me 
to  retire  to  the  country,  and  there  lead  a  simple  life, 
close  to  nature. 


VIII 

The  summer  is  fragrant  with  a  thousand  perfumes, 
and  a  great  peace  is  in  the  woods.  The  Hudson  River 
shimmers  in  the  distance,  a  solitary  sail  on  its  broad 
bosom.  The  Palisades  on  the  opposite  side  look  im¬ 
mutable,  eternal,  their  undulating  tops  melting  in  the 
grayish-blue  horizon. 

Puffs  of  smoke  rise  from  the  valley.  Here,  too,  has 
penetrated  the  restless  spirit.  The  muffled  thunder  of 
blasting  breaks  in  upon  the  silence.  The  greedy  hand  of 
man  is  desecrating  the  Palisades,  as  it  has  desecrated  the 
race.  But  the  big  river  flows  quietly,  and  the  sailboat 
glides  serenely  on  the  waters.  It  skips  over  the  foaming 
waves,  near  the  spot  I  stand  on,  toward  the  great,  busy 
city.  Now  it  is  floating  past  the  high  towers,  with  their 
forbidding  aspect.  It  is  Sing  Sing  prison.  Men  groan 
and  suffer  there,  and  are  tortured  in  the  dungeon.  And 
I — I  am  a  useless  cog,  an  idler,  while  others  toil;  and  I 
keep  mute,  while  others  suffer. 

My  mind  dwells  in  the  prison.  The  silence  rings  with 
the  cry  of  pain;  the  woods  echo  the  agony  of  the  dun¬ 
geon.  I  start  at  the  murmur  of  the  leaves ;  the  trees 
with  their  outstretched  arms  bar  my  way,  menacing  me 
like  the  guards  on  the  prison  walls.  Their  monster 
shapes  follow  me  in  the  valley. 


496  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


At  night  I  wake  in  cold  terror.  The  agonized  cry  of 
Crazy  Smithy  is  in  my  ears,  and  again  I  hear  the  sicken¬ 
ing  thud  of  the  riot  clubs  on  the  prisoner’s  head.  The 
solitude  is  harrowing  with  the  memory  of  the  prison;  it 
haunts  me  with  the  horrors  of  the  basket  cell.  Away,  I 
must  away,  to  seek  relief  amidst  the  people! 


Back  in  the  city,  I  face  the  problem  of  support.  The 
sense  of  dependence  gnaws  me.  The  hospitality  of  my 
friends  is  boundless,  but  I  cannot  continue  as  the  bene¬ 
ficiary  of  their  generosity.  I  had  declined  the  money 
gift  presented  to  me  on  my  release  by  the  comrades :  I 
felt  I  could  not  accept  even  their  well-meant  offering. 
The  question  of  earning  my  living  is  growing  acute. 
I  cannot  remain  idle.  But  what  shall  I  turn  to?  I  am 
too  weak  for  factory  work.  I  had  hoped  to  secure  em¬ 
ployment  as  a  compositor,  but  the  linotype  has  made  me 
superfluous.  I  might  be  engaged  as  a  proof-reader. 
My  former  membership  in  the  Typographical  Union  will 
enable  me  to  join  the  ranks  of  labor. 

My  physical  condition,  however,  precludes  the  imme¬ 
diate  realization  of  my  plans.  Meanwhile  some  com¬ 
rades  suggest  the  advisability  of  a  short  lecture  tour:  it 
will  bring  me  in  closer  contact  with  the  world,  and  serve 
to  awaken  new  interest  in  life.  The  idea  appeals  to  me. 
I  shall  be  doing  work,  useful  work.  I  shall  voice  the  cry 
of  the  depths,  and  perhaps  the  people  will  listen,  and 
some  may  understand ! 

IX 

With  a  great  effort  I  persevere  on  the  tour.  The 
strain  is  exhausting  my  strength,  and  I  feel  weary  and 
discontented.  My  innate  dread  of  public  speaking  is 


THE  RESURRECTION 


497 


aggravated  by  the  necessity  of  constant  association  with 
people.  The  comrades  are  sympathetic  and  attentive, 
but  their  very  care  is  a  source  of  annoyance.  I  long  for 
solitude  and  quiet.  In  the  midst  of  people,  the  old 
prison  instinct  of  escape  possesses  me.  Once  or  twice 
the  wild  idea  of  terminating  the  tour  has  crossed  my 
mind.  The  thought  is  preposterous,  impossible.  Meet¬ 
ings  have  already  been  arranged  in  various  cities,  and 
my  appearance  widely  announced.  It  would  disgrace 
me,  and  injure  the  movement,  were  I  to  prove  myself  so 
irresponsible.  I  owe  it  to  the  Cause,  and  to  my  com¬ 
rades,  to  keep  my  appointments.  I  must  fight  off  this 
morbid  notion. 

My  engagement  in  Pittsburgh  aids  my  determination. 
Little  did  I  dream  in  the  penitentiary  that  I  should  live 
to  see  that  city  again,  even  to  appear  in  public  there ! 
Looking  back  over  the  long  years  of  imprisonment,  of 
persecution  and  torture,  I  marvel  that  I  have  survived. 
Surely  it  was  not  alone  physical  capacity  to  suffer — how 
often  had  I  touched  the  threshold  of  death,  and  trembled 
on  the  brink  of  insanity  and  self-destruction !  Whatever 

strength  and  perseverance  I  possessed,  they  alone  could 

♦ 

not  have  saved  my  reason  in  the  night  of  the  dungeon,  or 
preserved  me  in  the  despair  of  the  solitary.  Poor 
Wingie,  Ed  Sloane,  and  “Fighting”  Tom;  Harry,  Rus¬ 
sell,  Crazy  Smithy — how  many  of  my  friends  have 
perished  there!  It  was  the  vision  of  an  ideal,  the  con¬ 
sciousness  that  I  suffered  for  a  great  Cause,  that  sus¬ 
tained  me.  The  very  exaggeration  of  my  self-estimate 
was  a  source  of  strength :  I  looked  upon  myself  as  a 
representative  of  a  world  movement;  it  was  my  duty  to 
exemplify  the  spirit  and  dignity  of  the  ideas  it  embodied. 
I  was  not  a  prisoner,  merely ;  I  was  an  Anarchist  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy;  as  such,  it  devolved  upon  me  to 


49&  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


maintain  the  manhood  and  self-respect  my  ideals  signi¬ 
fied.  The  example  of  the  political  prisoners  in  Russia 
inspired  me,  and  my  stay  in  the  penitentiary  was  a  con¬ 
tinuous  struggle  that  was  the  breath  of  life. 

Was  it  the  extreme  self-consciousness  of  the  idealist, 
the  power  of  revolutionary  traditions,  or  simply  the  per¬ 
sistent  will  to  be?  Most  likely,  it  was  the  fusing  of  all 
three,  that  shaped  my  attitude  in  prison  and  kept  me 
alive.  And  now,  on  my  way  to  Pittsburgh,  I  feel  the 
same  spirit  within  me,  at  the  threat  of  the  local  au¬ 
thorities  to  prevent  my  appearance  in  the  city.  Some 
friends  seek  to  persuade  me  to  cancel  my  lecture  there, 
alarmed  at  the  police  preparations  to  arrest  me.  Some¬ 
thing  might  happen,  they  warn  me :  legally  I  am  still  a 
prisoner  out  on  parole.  I  am  liable  to  be  returned  to  the 
penitentiary,  without  trial,  for  the  period  of  my  commu¬ 
tation  time — eight  years  and  two  months — if  convicted  of 
a  felony  before  the  expiration  of  my  full  sentence  of 
twenty-two  years. 

But  the  menace  of  the  enemy  stirs  me  from  apathy, 
and  all  my  old  revolutionary  defiance  is  roused  within 
me.  For  the  first  time  during  the  tour,  I  feel  a  vital  in¬ 
terest  in  life,  and  am  eager  to  ascend  the  platform. 

An  unfortunate  delay  on  the  road  brings  me  into 
Pittsburgh  two  hours  late  for  the  lecture.  Comrade 

M -  is  impatiently  waiting  for  me,  and  we  hasten  to 

the  meeting.  On  the  way  he  informs  me  that  the  hall 
is  filled  with  police  and  prison  guards ;  the  audience  is  in 
a  state  of  great  suspense ;  the  rumor  has  gone  about  that 
the  authorities  are  determined  to  prevent  my  appearance. 

I  sense  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement,  as  I  enter 
the  hall,  and  elbow  my  way  through  the  crowded  aisle. 
Some  one  grips  my  arm,  and  I  recognize  “Southside” 
Johnny,  the  friendly  prison  runner.  “Aleck,  take  care,” 
he  warns  me,  “the  bulls  are  layin’  for  you.” 


THE  RESURRECTION 


499 


X 

The  meeting  is  over,  the  danger  past.  I  feel  worn 
and  tired  with  the  effort  of  the  evening. 

My  next  lecture  is  to  take  place  in  Cleveland,  Ohio. 
The  all-night  ride  in  the  stuffy  smoker  aggravates  my 
fatigue,  and  sets  my  nerves  on  edge.  I  arrive  in  the  city 
feeling  feverish  and  sick.  To  engage  a  room  in  a  hotel 
would  require  an  extra  expense  from  the  proceeds  of  the 
tour,  which  are  intended  for  the  movement;  moreover, 
it  would  be  sybaritism,  contrary  to  the  traditional  prac¬ 
tice  of  Anarchist  lecturers.  I  decide  to  accept  the  hos¬ 
pitality  of  some  friend  during  my  stay  in  the  city. 

For  hours  I  try  to  locate  the  comrade  who  has  charge 
of  arranging  the  meetings.  At  his  home  I  am  told  that 
he  is  absent.  His  parents,  pious  Jews,  look  at  me 
askance,  and  refuse  to  inform  me  of  their  son’s  where¬ 
abouts.  The  unfriendly  attitude  of  the  old  folks  drives 
me  into  the  street  again,  and  I  seek  out  another  comrade. 
His  family  gathers  about  me.  Their  curious  gaze  is  em¬ 
barrassing;  their  questions  idle.  My  pulse  is  feverish, 
my  head  heavy.  I  should  like  to  rest  up  before  the 
lecture,  but  a  constant  stream  of  comrades  flows  in  on 
me,  and  the  house  rings  with  their  joy  of  meeting  me. 
The  talking  wearies  me;  their  ardent  interest  searches 
my  soul  with  rude  hands.  These  men  and  women — 
they,  too,  are  different  from  the  comrades  of  my  day; 
their  very  language  echoes  the  spirit  that  has  so  de¬ 
pressed  me  in  the  new  Ghetto.  The  abyss  in  our  feeling 
and  thought  appals  me. 

With  failing  heart  I  ascend  the  platform  in  the  eve¬ 
ning.  It  is  chilly  outdoors,  and  the  large  hall,  sparsely 
filled  and  badly  lit,  breathes  the  cold  of  the  grave  upon 
me.  The  audience  is  unresponsive.  The  lecture  on 


500  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


Crime  and  Prisons  that  so  thrilled  my  Pittsburgh  meet¬ 
ing,  wakes  no  vital  chord.  I  feel  dispirited.  My  voice 
is  weak  and  expressionless ;  at  times  it  drops  to  a  hoarse 
whisper.  I  seem  to  stand  at  the  mouth  of  a  deep  cavern, 
and  everything  is  dark  within.  I  speak  into  the  black¬ 
ness  ;  my  words  strike  metallically  against  the  walls,  and 
are  thrown  back  at  me  with  mocking  emphasis.  A  sense 
of  weariness  and  hopelessness  possesses  me,  and  I  con¬ 
clude  the  lecture  abruptly. 

The  comrades  surround  me,  grasp  my  hand,  and  ply 
me  with  questions  about  my  prison  life,  the  joy  of  liberty 
and  of  work.  They  are  undisguisedly  disappointed  at 
my  anxiety  to  retire,  but  presently  it  is  decided  that  I 
should  accept  the  proffered  hospitality  of  a  comrade  who 
owns  a  large  house  in  the  suburbs. 

The  ride  is  interminable,  the  comrade  apparently 

living  several  miles  out  in  the  country.  On  the  way  he 
talks  incessantly,  assuring  me  repeatedly  that  he  con¬ 
siders  it  a  great  privilege  to  entertain  me.  I  nod  sleepily. 

Finally  we  arrive.  The  place  is  large,  but  squalid. 
The  low  ceilings  press  down  on  my  head ;  the  rooms  look 
cheerless  and  uninhabited.  Exhausted  by  the  day’s  exer¬ 
tion,  I  fall  into  heavy  sleep. 

Awakening  in  the  morning,  I  am  startled  to  find  a 
stranger  in  my  bed.  His  coat  and  hat  are  on  the  floor, 
and  he  lies  snoring  at  my  side,  with  overshirt  and 

trousers  on.  He  must  have  fallen  into  bed  very  tired, 

without  even  detaching  the  large  cuffs,  torn  and  soiled, 

that  rattle  on  his  hands. 

The  sight  fills  me  with  inexpressible  disgust.  All 
through  the  years  of  my  prison  life,  my  nights  had  been 
passed  in  absolute  solitude.  The  presence  of  another  in 
my  bed  is  unutterably  horrifying.  I  dress  hurriedly, 
and  rush  out  of  the  house. 


THE  RESURRECTION 


501 


A  heavy  drizzle  is  falling;  the  air  is  close  and  damp. 
The  country  looks  cheerless  and  dreary.  But  one 
thought  possesses  me:  to  get  away  from  the  stranger 
snoring  in  my  bed,  away  from  the  suffocating  atmosphere 
of  the  house  with  its  low  ceilings,  out  into  the  open, 
away  from  the  presence  of  man.  The  sight  of  a  human 
being  repels  me,  the  sound  of  a  voice  is  torture  to  me. 
I  want  to  be  alone,  always  alone,  to  have  peace  and 
quiet,  to  lead  a  simple  life  in  close  communion  with 
nature.  Ah,  nature !  That,  too,  I  have  tried,  and  found 
more  impossible  even  than  the  turmoil  of  the  city.  The 
silence  of  the  woods  threatened  to  drive  me  mad,  as 
did  the  solitude  of  the  dungeon.  A  curse  upon  the  thing 
that  has  incapacitated  me  for  life,  made  solitude  as  hate¬ 
ful  as  the  face  of  man,  made  life  itself  impossible  to  me ! 
And  is  it  for  this  I  have  yearned  and  suffered,  for  this 
spectre  that  haunts  my  steps,  and  turns  day  into  a  night¬ 
mare — this  distortion,  Life?  Oh,  where  is  the  joy  of 
expectation,  the  tremulous  rapture,  as  I  stood  at  the  door 
of  my  cell,  hailing  the  blush  of  the  dawn,  the  day  of 
resurrection !  Where  the  happy  moments  that  lit  up  the 
night  of  misery  with  the  ecstasy  of  freedom,  which  was 
to  give  me  back  to  work  and  joy!  Where,  where  is  it 
all  ?  Is  liberty  sweet  only  in  the  anticipation,  and  life  a 
bitter  awakening? 

The  rain  has  ceased.  The  sun  peeps  through  the 
clouds,  and  glints  its  rays  upon  a  shop  window.  My  eye 
falls  on  the  gleaming  barrel  of  a  revolver.  I  enter  the 
place,  and  purchase  the  weapon. 

I  walk  aimlessly,  in  a  daze.  It  is  beginning  to  rain 
again ;  my  body  is  chilled  to  the  bone,  and  I  seek  the 
shelter  of  a  saloon  on  an  obscure  street. 

In  the  corner  of  the  dingy  back  room  I  notice  a  girl. 
She  is  very  young,  with  an  air  of  gentility  about  her, 
that  is  somewhat  marred  by  her  quick,  restless  look. 


502  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


We  sit  in  silence,  watching  the  heavy  downpour  out¬ 
doors.  The  girl  is  toying  with  a  glass  of  whiskey. 

Angry  voices  reach  us  from  the  street.  There  is  a 
heavy  shuffling  of  feet,  and  a  suppressed  cry.  A  woman 
lurches  through  the  swinging  door,  and  falls  against  a 
table. 

The  girl  rushes  to  the  side  of  the  woman,  and  assists 
her  into  a  chair.  “Are  you  hurt,  Madge?”  she  asks  sym¬ 
pathetically. 

The  woman  looks  up  at  her  with  bleary  eyes.  She 
raises  her  hand,  passes  it  slowly  across  her  mouth,  and 
spits  violently. 

“He  hit  me,  the  dirty  brute,”  she  whimpers,  “he  hit 
me.  But  I  sha’n’t  give  him  no  money;  I  just  won’t, 
Frenchy.” 

The  girl  is  tenderly  wiping  her  friend’s  bleeding  face. 
“Sh-sh,  Madge,  sh — sh !”  she  warns  her,  with  a  glance  at 
the  approaching  waiter. 

“Drunk  again,  you  old  bitch,”  the  man  growls. 
“You’d  better  vamoose  now.” 

“Oh,  let  her  be,  Charley,  won’t  you  ?”  the  girl  coaxes. 
“And,  say,  bring  me  a  bitters.” 

“The  dirty  loafer!  It’s  money,  always  gimme 
money,”  the  woman  mumbles ;  “and  I’ve  had  such  bad 
luck,  Frenchy.  You  know  it’s  true.  Don’t  you, 
Frenchy  ?” 

“Yes,  yes,  dear,”  the  girl  soothes  her.  “Don’t  talk 
now.  Lean  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  so !  You’ll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute.” 

The  girl  sways  to  and  fro,  gently  patting  the  woman 
on  the  head,  and  all  is  still  in  the  room.  The  woman’s 
breathing  grows  regular  and  louder.  She  snores,  and 
the  young  girl  slowly  unwinds  her  arms  and  resumes 
her  seat. 

I  motion  to  her.  “Will  you  have  a  drink  with  me?” 


THE  RESURRECTION 


503 


“With  pleasure,”  she  smiles.  “Poor  thing,”  she  nods 
toward  the  sleeper,  “her  fellow  beats  her  and  takes  all 
she  makes.” 

“You  have  a  kind  heart,  Frenchy.” 

“We  girls  must  be  good  to  each  other;  no  one  else 
will.  Some  men  are  so  mean,  just  too  mean  to  live  or 
let  others  live.  But  some  are  nice.  Of  course,  some 
girls  are  bad,  but  we  ain’t  all  like  that  and — ”  she  hesi¬ 
tates. 

“And  what?” 

“Well,  some  have  seen  better  days.  I  wasn’t  always 
like  this,”  she  adds,  gulping  down  her  drink. 

Her  face  is  pensive ;  her  large  black  eyes  look  dreamy. 
She  asks  abruptly: 

“You  like  poetry?” 

“' Ye— es.  Why  ?” 

“I  write.  Oh,  you  don’t  believe  me,  do  you  ?  Here’s 
something  of  mine,”  and  with  a  preliminary  cough,  she 
begins  to  recite  with  exaggerated  feeling: 

Mother  dear,  the  days  were  young 
When  posies  in  our  garden  hung. 

Upon  your  lap  my  golden  head  I  laid, 

With  pure  and  happy  heart  I  prayed. 

“I  remember  those  days,”  she  adds  wistfully. 

We  sit  in  the  dusk,  without  speaking.  The  lights  are 
turned  on,  and  my  eye  falls  on  a  paper  lying  on  the  table. 
The  large  black  print  announces  an  excursion  to  Buffalo. 

“Will  you  come  with  me  ?”  I  ask  the  girl,  pointing  to 
the  advertisement. 

“To  Buffalo  ?”  ? 

“Yes.”  *  - 

“You’re  kidding.” 

“No.  Will  you  come  ?” 

“Sure.” 


504  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


Alone  with  me  in  the  stateroom,  “Frenchy”  grows 
tender  and  playful.  She  notices  my  sadness,  and  tries  to 
amuse  me.  But  I  am  thinking  of  the  lecture  that  is  to 
take  place  in  Cleveland  this  very  hour :  the  anxiety  of  my 
comrades,  the  disappointment  of  the  audience,  my  ab¬ 
sence,  all  prey  on  my  mind.  But  who  am  I,  to  presume 
to  teach  ?  I  have  lost  my  bearings ;  there  is  no  place  for 
me  in  life.  My  bridges  are  burned. 

The  girl  is  in  high  spirits,  but  her  jollity  angers  me. 
I  crave  to  speak  to  her,  to  share  my  misery  and  my  grief. 
I  hint  at  the  impossibility  of  life,  and  my  superfluity  in 
the  world,  but  she  looks  bored,  not  grasping  the  signifi¬ 
cance  of  my  words. 

“Don’t  talk  so  foolish,  boy,”  she  scoffs.  “What  do 
you  care  about  work  or  a  place?  You’ve  got  money; 
what  more  do  you  want?  You  better  go  down  now  and 
fetch  something  to  drink.” 

Returning  to  the  stateroom,  I  find  “Frenchy”  missing. 
In  a  sheltered  nook  on  the  deck  I  recognize  her  in  the 
lap  of  a  stranger.  Heart-sore  and  utterly  disgusted,  I 
retire  to  my  berth.  In  the  morning  I  slip  quietly  off  the 
boat. 


The  streets  are  deserted ;  the  city  is  asleep.  In  the 
fog  and  rain,  the  gray  buildings  resemble  the  prison 
walls,  the  tall  factory  chimneys  standing  guard  like 
monster  sentinels.  I  hasten  away  from  the  hated  sight, 
and  wander  along  the  docks.  The  mist  weaves  phantom 
shapes,  and  I  see  a  multitude  of  people  and  in  their 
midst  a  boy,  pale,,  with  large,  lustrous  eyes.  The  crowd 
curses  and  yells  in  frenzied  passion,  and  arms  are  raised, 
and  blows  rain  down  on  the  lad’s  head.  The  rain  beats 
heavier,  and  every  drop  is  a  blow.  The  boy  totters  and 


THE  RESURRECTION 


505 


falls  to  the  ground.  The  wistful  face,  the  dreamy  eyes 
— why,  it  is  Czolgosz! 

Accursed  spot!  I  cannot  die  here.  I  must  to  New 
York,  to  be  near  my  friends  in  death! 

XI 

Loud  knocking  wakes  me. 

“Say,  Mister,”  a  voice  calls  behind  the  door,  “are  you 
all  right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Will  you  have  a  bite,  or  something?” 

“No.” 

“Well,  as  you  please.  But  you  haven’t  left  your 
room  going  on  two  days  now.” 

Two  days,  and  still  alive?  The  road  to  death  is  so 
short,  why  suffer?  An  instant,  and  I  shall  be  no  more, 
and  only  the  memory  of  me  will  abide  for  a  little  while 
in  this  world.  This  world?  Is  there  another?  If 
there  is  anything  in  Spiritualism,  Carl  will  learn  of  it. 
In  the  prison  we  had  been  interested  in  the  subject,  and 
we  had  made  a  compact  that  he  who  is  the  first  to  die, 
should  appear  in  spirit  to  the  other.  Pretty  fancy  of 
foolish  man,  born  of  immortal  vanity !  Hereafter,  life 
after  death — children  of  earth’s  misery.  The  dishar¬ 
mony  of  life  bears  dreams  of  peace  and  bliss,  but  there 
is  no  harmony  save  in  death.  Who  knows  but  that  even 
then  the  atoms  of  my  lifeless  clay  will  find  no  rest,  tossed 
about  in  space  to  form  new  shapes  and  new  thoughts  for 
aeons  of  human  anguish. 

And  so  Carl  will  not  see  me  after  death.  Our  com¬ 
pact  will  not  be  kept,  for  nothing  will  remain  of  my 
“soul”  when  I  am  dead,  as  nothing  remains  of  the  sum 
when  its  units  are  gone.  Dear  Carl,  he  will  be  dis- 


506  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


traught  at  my  failure  to  come  to  Detroit.  He  had  ar¬ 
ranged  a  lecture  there,  following  Cleveland.  It  is 
peculiar  that  I  should  not  have  thought  of  wiring  him 
that  I  was  unable  to  attend.  He  might  have  suspended 
preparations.  But  it  did  not  occur  to  me,  and  now  it  is 
too  late. 

The  Girl,  too,  will  be  in  despair  over  my  disappear¬ 
ance.  I  cannot  notify  her  now — I  am  virtually  dead. 
Yet  I  crave  to  see  her  once  more  before  I  depart,  even  at 
a  distance.  But  that  also  is  too  late.  I  am  almost  dead. 

I  dress  mechanically,  and  step  into  the  street.  The 
brilliant  sunshine,  the  people  passing  me  by,  the  children 
playing  about,  strike  on  my  consciousness  with  pleasing 
familiarity.  The  desire  grips  me  to  be  one  of  them,  to 
participate  in  their  life.  And  yet  it  seems  strange  to 
think  of  myself  as  part  of  this  moving,  breathing  human¬ 
ity.  Am  I  not  dead? 

I  roam  about  all  day.  At  dusk  I  am  surprised  to  find 
myself  near  the  Girl’s  home.  The  fear  seizes  me  that  I 
might  be  seen  and  recognized.  A  sense  of  guilt  steals 
over  me,  and  I  shrink  away,  only  to  return  again  and 
again  to  the  familiar  spot. 

I  pass  the  night  in  the  park.  An  old  man,  a  sailor 
out  of  work,  huddles  close  to  me,  seeking  the  warmth  of 
my  body.  But  I  am  cold  and  cheerless,  and  all  next  day 
I  haunt  again  the  neighborhood  of  the  Girl.  An  irre¬ 
sistible  force  attracts  me  to  the  house.  Repeatedly  I  re¬ 
turn  to  my  room  and  snatch  up  the  weapon,  and  then 
rush  out  again.  I  am  fearful  of  being  seen  near  the 
“Den,”  and  I  make  long  detours  to  the  Battery  and  the 
Bronx,  but  again  and  again  I  find  myself  watching  the 
entrance  and  speculating  on  the  people  passing  in  and  out 
of  the  house.  My  mind  pictures  the  Girl,  with  her 
friends  about  her.  What  are  they  discussing,  I  wonder. 


THE  RESURRECTION 


507 


“Why,  myself !”  it  flits  through  my  mind.  The  thought 
appalls  me.  They  must  be  distraught  with  anxiety  over 
my  disappearance.  Perhaps  they  think  me  dead! 

I  hasten  to  a  telegraph  office,  and  quickly  pen  a  mes¬ 
sage  to  the  Girl :  “Come.  I  am  waiting  here.” 

In  a  flurry  of  suspense  I  wait  for  the  return  of  the 
messenger.  A  little  girl  steps  in,  and  I  recognize  Tess, 
and  inwardly  resent  that  the  Girl  did  not  come  herself. 

“Aleck,”  she  falters,  “Sonya  wasn’t  home  when 
your  message  came.  I’ll  run  to  find  her.” 

The  old  dread  of  people  is  upon  me,  and  I  rush  out 
of  the  place,  hoping  to  avoid  meeting  the  Girl.  I  stumble 
through  the  streets,  retrace  my  steps  to  the  telegraph 
office,  and  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with  her. 

Her  appearance  startles  me.  The  fear  of  death  is  in 
her  face,  mute  horror  in  her  eyes. 

“Sasha!”  Her  hand  grips  my  arm,  and  she  steadies 
my  faltering  step. 


XII 

I  open  my  eyes.  The  room  is  light  and  airy ;  a  sooth¬ 
ing  quiet  pervades  the  place.  The  portieres  part  noise¬ 
lessly,  and  the  Girl  looks  in. 

“Awake,  Sasha?”  She  brightens  with  a  happy  smile. 

“Yes.  When  did  I  come  here?” 

“Several  days  ago.  You’ve  been  very  sick,  but  you 
feel  better  now,  don’t  you,  dear?” 

Several  days?  I  try  to  recollect  my  trip  to  Buffalo, 
the  room  on  the  Bowery.  Was  it  all  a  dream? 

“Where  was  I  before  I  came  here?”  I  ask. 

“You — you  were — absent,”  she  stammers,  and  in  her 
face  is  visioned  the  experience  of  my  disappearance. 

With  tender  care  the  Girl  ministers  to  me.  I  feel  like 


508  prison  memoirs  of  an  anarchist 


one  recovering  from  a  long  illness :  very  weak,  but  with 
a  touch  of  joy  in  life.  No  one  is  permitted  to  see  me, 
save  one  or  two  of  the  Girl’s  nearest  friends,  who  slip  in 
quietly,  pat  my  hand  in  mute  sympathy,  and  discreetly 
retire.  I  sense  their  understanding,  and  am  grateful 
that  they  make  no  allusion  to  the  events  of  the  past  days. 

The  care  of  the  Girl  is  unwavering.  By  degrees  I 
gain  strength.  The  room  is  bright  and  cheerful;  the 
silence  of  the  house  soothes  me.  The  warm  sunshine  is 
streaming  through  the  open  window;  I  can  see  the  blue 
sky,  and  the  silvery  cloudlets.  A  little  bird  hops  upon 
the  sill,  looks  steadily  at  me,  and  chirps  a  greeting.  It 
brings  back  the  memory  of  Dick,  my  feathered  pet,  and 
of  my  friends  in  prison.  I  have  done  nothing  for  the 
agonized  men  in  the  dungeon  darkness — have  I  forgotten 
them?  I  have  the  opportunity;  why  am  I  idle? 

The  Girl  calls  cheerfully:  “Sasha,  our  friend  Philo  is 
here.  Would  you  like  to  see  him?” 

I  welcome  the  comrade  whose  gentle  manner  and 
deep  sympathy  have  endeared  him  to  me  in  the  days 
since  my  return.  There  is  something  unutterably  tender 
about  him.  The  circle  had  christened  him  “the  philos¬ 
opher,”  and  his  breadth  of  understanding  and  non-inva- 
sive  personality  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  me. 

His  voice  is  low  and  caressing,  like  the  soft  crooning 
of  a  mother  rocking  her  child  to  sleep.  “Life  is  a  prob¬ 
lem,”  he  is  saying,  “a  problem  whose  solution  consists  in 
trying  to  solve  it.  Schopenhauer  may  have  been  right,” 
he  smiles,  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  “but  his 
love  of  life  was  so  strong,  his  need  for  expression  so 
compelling,  he  had  to  write  a  big  book  to  prove  how  use¬ 
less  is  all  effort.  But  his  very  sincerity  disproves  him. 
Life  is  its  own  justification.  The  disharmony  of  life  is 
more  seeming  than  real ;  and  what  is  real  of  it,  is  the  folly 


THE  RESURRECTION 


509 


and  blindness  of  man.  To  struggle  against  that  folly,  is 
to  create  greater  harmony,  wider  possibilities.  Artificial 
barriers  circumscribe  and  dwarf  life,  and  stifle  its  mani¬ 
festations.  To  break  those  barriers  down,  is  to  find  a 
vent,  to  expand,  to  express  oneself.  And  that  is  life, 
Aleck :  a  continuous  struggle  for  expression.  It  mirrors 
itself  in  nature,  as  in  all  the  phases  of  man’s  existence. 
Look  at  the  little  vine  struggling  against  the  fury  of  the 
storm,  and  clinging  with  all  its  might  to  preserve  its  hold. 
Then  see  it  stretch  toward  the  sunshine,  to  absorb  the  light 
and  the  warmth,  and  then  freely  give  back  of  itself  in 
multiple  form  and  wealth  of  color.  We  call  it  beautiful 
then,  for  it  has  found  expression.  That  is  life,  Aleck, 
and  thus  it  manifests  itself  through  all  the  gradations  we 
call  evolution.  The  higher  the  scale,  the  more  varied 
and  complex  the  manifestations,  and,  in  turn,  the  greater 
the  need  for  expression.  To  suppress  or  thwart  it, 
means  decay,  death.  And  in  this,  Aleck,  is  to  be  found 
the  main  source  of  suffering  and  misery.  The  hunger  of 
life  storms  at  the  gates  that  exclude  it  from  the  joy  of 
being,  and  the  individual  soul  multiplies  its  expressions 
by  being  mirrored  in  the  collective,  as  the  little  vine 
mirrors  itself  in  its  many  flowers,  or  as  the  acorn  in¬ 
dividualizes  itself  a  thousandfold  in  the  many-leafed  oak. 
But  I  am  tiring  you,  Aleck.” 

“No,  no,  Philo.  Continue;  I  want  to  hear  more.” 

“Well,  Aleck,  as  with  nature,  so  with  man.  Life  is 
never  at  a  standstill ;  everywhere  and  ever  it  seeks  new 
manifestations,  more  expansion.  In  art,  in  literature,  as 
in  the  affairs  of  men,  the  struggle  is  continual  for  higher 
and  more  intimate  expression.  That  is  progress — the 
vine  reaching  for  more  sunshine  and  light.  Translated 
into  the  language  of  social  life,  it  means  the  individual¬ 
ization  of  the  mass,  the  finding  of  a  higher  level,  the 
climbing  over  the  fences  that  shut  out  life.  Everywhere 


510  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


you  see  this  reaching  out.  The  process  is  individual  and 
social  at  the  same  time,  for  the  species  lives  in  the  indi¬ 
vidual  as  much  as  the  individual  persists  in  the  species. 
The  individual  comes  first;  his  clarified  vision  is  multi¬ 
plied  in  his  immediate  environment,  and  gradually  per¬ 
meates  through  his  generation  and  time,  deepening  the 
social  consciousness  and  widening  the  scope  of  existence. 
But  perhaps  you  have  not  found  it  so,  Aleck,  after  your 
many  years  of  absence?” 

“No,  dear  Philo.  What  you  have  said  appeals  to 
me  very  deeply.  But  I  have  found  things  so  different 
from  what  I  had  pictured  them.  Our  comrades,  the 
movement — it  is  not  what  I  thought  it  would  be.” 

“It  is  quite  natural,  Aleck.  A  change  has  taken  place, 
but  its  meaning  is  apt  to  be  distorted  through  the  dim 
vision  of  your  long  absence.  I  know  well  what  you  miss, 
dear  friend :  the  old  mode  of  existence,  the  living  on  the 
very  threshold  of  the  revolution,  so  to  speak.  And 
everything  looks  strange  to  you,  and  out  of  joint. 
But  as  you  stay  a  little  longer  with  us,  you  will  see  that 
it  is  merely  a  change  of  form ;  the  essence  is  the  same. 
We  are  the  same  as  before,  Aleck,  only  made  deeper  and 
broader  by  years  and  experience.  Anarchism  has  cast 
off  the  swaddling  bands  of  the  small,  intimate  circles  of 
former  days;  it  has  grown  to  greater  maturity,  and  be¬ 
come  a  factor  in  the  larger  life  of  Society.  You  remem¬ 
ber  it  only  as  a  little  mountain  spring,  around  which 
clustered  a  few  thirsty  travelers  in  the  dreariness  of  the 
capitalist  desert.  It  has  since  broadened  and  spread  as  a 
strong  current  that  covers  a  wide  area  and  forces  its 
way  even  into  the  very  ocean  of  life.  You  see,  dear 
Aleck,  the  philosophy  of  Anarchism  is  beginning  to 
pervade  every  phase  of  human  endeavor.  In  science,  in 
art,  in  literature,  everywhere  the  influence  of  Anarchist 
thought  is  creating  new  values;  its  spirit  is  vitalizing 


THE  RESURRECTION 


511 

social  movements,  and  finding  interpretation  in  life. 
Indeed,  Aleck,  we  have  not  worked  in  vain.  Through¬ 
out  the  world  there  is  a  great  awakening.  Even  in  this 
socially  most  backward  country,  the  seeds  sown  are  be¬ 
ginning  to  bear  fruit.  Times  have  changed,  indeed;  but 
encouragingly  so,  Aleck.  The  leaven  of  discontent,  ever 
more  conscious  and  intelligent,  is  moulding  new  social 
thought  and  new  action.  To-day  our  industrial  condi¬ 
tions,  for  instance,  present  a  different  aspect  from  those 
of  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  then  possible  for  the  mas¬ 
ters  of  life  to  sacrifice  to  their  interests  the  best  friends 
of  the  people.  But  to-day  the  spontaneous  solidarity 
and  awakened  consciousness  of  large  strata  of  labor  is  a 
guarantee  against  the  repetition  of  such  judicial  murders. 
It  is  a  most  significant  sign,  Aleck,  and  a  great  inspira¬ 
tion  to  renewed  effort.” 

The  Girl  enters.  “Are  you  crooning  Sasha  to  sleep, 
Philo?”  she  laughs. 

“Oh,  no!”  I  protest,  “Pm  wide  awake  and  much  in¬ 
terested  in  Philo’s  conversation.” 

“It  is  getting  late,”  he  rejoins.  “I  must  be  off  to  the 
meeting.” 

“What  meeting?”  I  inquire. 

“The  Czolgosz  anniversary  commemoration.” 

“I  think — I’d  like  to  come  along.” 

“Better  not,  Sasha,”  my  friend  advises.  “You  need 
some  light  distraction.” 

“Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  to  the  theatre,”  the 
Girl  suggests.  “Stella  has  tickets.  She’d  be  happy  to 
have  you  come,  Sasha.” 

Returning  home  in  the  evening,  I  find  the  “Den”  in 
great  excitement.  The  assembled  comrades  look  wor- 


512  PRISON  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ANARCHIST 


ried,  talk  in  whispers,  and  seem  to  avoid  my  glance.  I 
miss  several  familiar  faces. 

“Where  are  the  others?”  I  ask. 

The  comrades  exchange  troubled  looks,  and  are  silent. 

“Has  anything  happened?  Where  are  they?”  I  in¬ 
sist. 

“I  may  as  well  tell  you,”  Philo  replies,  “but  be  calm, 
Sasha.  The  police  have  broken  up  our  meeting.  They 
have  clubbed  the  audience,  and  arrested  a  dozen  com¬ 
rades.” 

“Is  it  serious,  Philo?” 

“I  am  afraid  it  is.  They  are  going  to  make  a  test 
case.  Under  the  new  ‘Criminal  Anarchy  Law’  our  com¬ 
rades  may  get  long  terms  in  prison.  They  have  taken 
our  most  active  friends.” 

The  news  electrifies  me.  I  feel  myself  transported 
into  the  past,  the  days  of  struggle  and  persecution. 
Philo  was  right !  The  enemy  is  challenging,  the  struggle 
is  going  on!  ...  I  see  the  graves  of  Waldheim  open, 
and  hear  the  voices  from  the  tomb. 

A  deep  peace  pervades  me,  and  I  feel  a  great  joy  in 
my  heart. 

“Sasha,  what  is  it?”  Philo  cries  in  alarm. 

“My  resurrection,  dear  friend.  I  have  found  work 
to  do.” 


) 


ANARCHIST 


LIBRARY 


ANARCHISM 

The  philosophy  of 
a  new  social  order 
based  on  liberty  un¬ 
restricted  by  man¬ 
made  law;  the  theory 
that  all  forms  of  gov¬ 
ernment  rest  on  vio¬ 
lence,  and  are  there¬ 
fore  wrong  and  harm¬ 
ful,  as  well  as  un¬ 
necessary. 


HEADQUARTERS 
FOR  ANARCHIST 
LITERATURE 


FREE 

COMMUNISM 

Voluntary  econom¬ 
ic  co-operation; 
a  social  arrangement 
based  on  the  princi¬ 
ple:  To  each  accord¬ 
ing  to  his  needs ; 
from  each  according 
to  his  ability. 


LIBRARY 


OF 


ANARCHISM 


The  literature  of  Anarchism  is  very  extensive. 
Numerous  books  and  pamphlets  have  been  written, 
treating  of  the  various  phases  of  Anarchist  thought, 
and  many  publications,  both  here  and  abroad, 
are  devoted  to  this  philosophy  of  life.  No  well- 
informed  man  or  woman  can  afford  to  ignore  this 
vital  subject.  Your  library  is  not  complete  unless 
it  includes  works  on  Anarchism. 


Mother  Earth  Publishing  Association 

55  WEST  28th  STREET 

V 

NEW  YORK 


Orders  for  literature  should  be  accompanied  by 
check  or  money  order.  Special  discount  on  large 
quantities. 


ANARCHISM 

AND 

OTHER  ESSAYS 

BY 

EMMA  ;G  OLDMAN 


Including  a  biographic  SKETCH  of  the  author’s  ? 

!  interesting  career,  a  splendid  PORTRAIT,  and  ^ 

twelve  of  her  most  important  lectures,  some  of  £ 

which  have  been  suppressed  by  the  police  author-  \ 

!!  ities  of  various  cities.  This  book  expresses  the  | 

most  advanced  ideas  on  social  questions — econom-  { 

«►  ics,  politics,  education  and  sex.  f 


REVISED  EDITION 


CONTENTS 

Biographic  Sketch 
Preface 

Anarchism:  What  it  really  stands  for 
Minorities  versus  Majorities 
The  Psychology  of  Political  Violence 
Prisons :  A  Social  Crime  and  Failure 
Patriotism:  A  Menace  to  Liberty 
Francisco  Ferrer  and  the  Modern  School 
The  Hypocrisy  of  Puritanism 
The  Traffic  in  Women 
Woman  Suffrage 

The  Tragedy  of  Woman’s  Emancipation 
Marriage  and  Love 
The  Drama:  A  Powerful  Disseminator  of  Radical  Thought 


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1 

I  Memoirs  of  a  Revolutionist .  2.00 

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T  Russian  Literature  .  1.00 

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i  Fields,  Factories,  and  Workshops . 25 

:  Modem  Science  and  Anarchism . 15 

The  Terror  in  Russia . 15 

t  The  State:  Its  Historic  R61e . 10 

?  Anarchism :  Its  Philosophy  and  Ideal . .  .05 

1 

?  Anarchist  Communism . 05 

I 

i  The  Place  of  Anarchism  in  Social 

|  Evolution  . 05 

|  The  Commune  of  Paris . 05 

t  The  Wage  System . 05 

t  Expropriation  . 05 

?  Law  and  Authority . 05 

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War  . 05 

l  An  Appeal  to  the  Young . 05 

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Psychology  of  Political  Violence 

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Anarchism:  What  It  Really  Stands  For 


Emma  Goldman 

.10 

Marriage  and  Love 

Emma  Goldman 

.10 

Patriotism 

Emma  Goldman 

•05 

What  I  Believe 

Emma  Goldman 

•05 

Anarchy  Versus  Socialism 

William  C.  Owen 

•05 

Anarchism  and  Malthus 

C.  L.  James 

•05 

The  Modern  School 

Francisco  Ferrer 

•05 

A  Talk  About  Anarchist  Communism  Be¬ 
tween  Two  Workers 

Enrico  Malatesta  .05 

Direct  Action  Voltairine  de  Cleyre  .05 


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The  Life,  Trial  and  Death  of  Francisco 

Ferrer  William  Archer  $3.00 

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Anarchism  An  able  and  impartial  expo¬ 
sition  of  Anarchism 

Paul  Eltzbacher  1.50 

What  Is  Property?  A  brilliant  arraign¬ 
ment  of  property  and  the  State 

Pierre  Proudhon  2.15 

The  Ego  and  His  Own  New  edition  to 
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The  Life  of  Albert  Parsons  1.50 

Speeches  of  the  Chicago  Anarchists 

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God  and  the  State  Michael  Bakunin  .25 

Francisco  Ferrer:  His  Life,  Work  and 

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The  Modern  School  in  New  York 

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News  From  Nowhere  William  Morris  .75 

Useful  Work  Versus  Useless  Toil  .05 

William  Morris  .05 

Monopoly  William  Morris  .05 

Evolution  and  Revolution  Elisee  Reclus  .05 


MISCELLANEOUS 

The  Bomb.  A  novel  vividly  portraying 
the  Chicago  Haymarket  Events  of 
188 7  Frank  Harris  i.oo 

The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  Oscar  Wilde  .10 

The  Soul  of  Man  Under  Socialism 

Oscar  Wilde  .10 


On  the  Duty  of  Civil  Disobedience 

H.  D.  Thoreau 


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The  Basis  of  Trades  Unionism 

Emile  Pouget  .05 

Love’s  Coming  of  Age 

Postage  ioc.  Edward  Carpenter  1.00 

Non-Governmental  Society 

Edward  Carpenter  .15 

A  Vindication  of  Natural  Society 

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Concentration  of  Capital 

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The  Pyramid  of  Tyranny 

F.  Domela  Nieuwenhuis  .05 

Industrial  Unionism  William  Haywood  .05 

The  General  Strike  William  Haywood  .05 

Anarchy  Enrico  Malatesta  .05 


THE  ONLY  ANARCHIST  MONTHLY 
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MOTHER 

EARTH 

<H  A  revolutionary  literary  magazine  devoted  to 
Anarchist  thought  in  sociology,  economics,  edu¬ 
cation,  and  life. 

€[[  Articles  by  leading  Anarchists  and  radical 
thinkers. — International  Notes  giving  a  sum¬ 
mary  of  the  revolutionary  activities  in  various 
countries. — Reviews  of  modern  books  and  the 
drama. 


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ONE  DOLLAR  A  YEAR 


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55  WEST  TWENTY-EIGHTH  STREET 
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Bound  Volumes  J906-J9J2,  Two  Dollars  per  Volume 


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